


Roses of Defiance

by tangofox, yournameisinmyhands



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, D/s, D/s Based Sexuality, Dominance, Dubious Consent, F/F, M/M, No Gender Based Sexuality, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, References to Drug Use, Scene Gone Wrong, Soulmates, Submission, Subspace, domtaire, subjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangofox/pseuds/tangofox, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yournameisinmyhands/pseuds/yournameisinmyhands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Enjolras and Grantaire feel the tug of their soulmates, neither is ready to form a life-long relationship. While their friends around them start lives and settle down, they must learn about each other, and perhaps most importantly, learn about themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Tug Doesn't Show the Light to Come

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction will have different issues from what we have in current society, it's an Alternate Universe where Dominant and submissives are the norm, and everyone has a soulmate, you don't have to be with your soulmate but you have one, simple as that. Some themes in the fics show a kind of sexism but more against submissives than females especially in this verse if you are female or male has no matter. It's if you're Dominant or submissive that gives you privilege. 
> 
> That is all I want to say before letting you get to reading, if there's anything we've missed tagging please tell us and we'll tag it quickly.
> 
> You can view our Fancast here (http://tangofox.tumblr.com/tagged/roses+of+defiance)
> 
> \--

Thirteen

If there ever were a prize for being the sourest child in the world, Grantaire would have a little golden trophy sat upon his dusty shelves. But all the boy had in his room was a book on fighters that he had checked out of the library when his mother was pleasant enough to take him, and some tap shoes he stole from inside the community centre and stowed under his simple bed.  
Even at the young age of ten, Grantaire was already aware that he had very little, and there was a slim chance of his prospects in life improving. If he were even a few years older there would be an adult to tell him to aim bigger, to set goals or to reach out to the stars. But the boy had always been more fascinated with the sun in his own galaxy to pay attention to any others, and saw no reason to reach for anything that seemed outright impossible. 

His parents were the sort who would do well without a child, parenthood was forced upon them by a drunken mistake, and neither of them were ready to take the responsibility a child thrust upon them. Grantaire recalled having a Grandmother who he visited from time to time, perhaps she wasn't a relative at all, just some kindly old lady who was happy to do the babysitting while his Mother complained down at the club, and his Father drank more whiskey than a man should be able to handle. But mostly, from the time he was born until he was twelve, he was alone. He spent a lot of his time at the park, watching the Mothers push their children on the swings, Fathers and sons kicking around a football. He learnt how envy felt very early on, held bitterness in his heart when he looked at broken families. 

He was sat attacking the ground with a sick, when he felt something hit him in the back of his head. Grantaire was no stranger to bullies. He was an outsider, a loner, and that had always made him a target for some of the meaner kids. But usually he just glared at them fiercely enough for them to give in and walk away. But he was surprised when he turned around and wasn't faced with a crowd of boys, but a singular kid, dirtied from his toes to his crown, holding out his filthy hand, his other clutching a clop of mud. He had sandy brown hair, not as curly as Grantaire's unruly mop, but neatly shaved at both sides, a few stray curls stuck to his sweaty forehead. He was wearing navy jeans with grass staining the knees, and a bright red football shirt, a big smear of dirt over his chest. Grantaire couldn't help but think how if his Father was sober enough to catch him so dirty, he would beat him hard for it.  
He himself was wearing a beat up maroon sweatshirt that his Mother had gotten from the charity shop, and black cargo-style trousers that he kept having to pull up. His black hair was a mess and needed a wash, untamed curls making his hair much wider than his head. One of the boys at school once laughed and asked him if he was a Jew, but that only confused him further, he knew far too little about religion to be anything at all. And all his Father did was curse at God, so he thought maybe religion wasn't such a clever idea anyway if all it did was make grown men shout and curse all night long.  
Grantaire found himself both in awe and insanely jealous of the stranger, with his wide grin that wasn't at all intimidating. What came next however, he hadn't expected at all.

“Names Bahorel, wanna wrestle?” The kid asks, and when Grantaire holds out his hand his grip his firmer than most men. He never had a friend, nobody chose to pair up with him in school, nobody talked to him in the playground, nobody invited him over for tea. Some stranger in the park asking to fight with him was the most shocking and exciting thing that he could ever hope for. And for the young Grantaire, hope was in short supply, it most definitely wasn't something he experienced often.  
When he got older, Grantaire would lean over a table grimly and claim he could count the happy moments of his childhood on one hand, on his five dirty fingers. Bahorel had a bright grin that didn't fade, and it lit a light in his new companion, a small burning flame that wouldn't be extinguished, and would only brighten in the future. And for the first time in his memory, Grantaire felt a laugh escape him as he tackled the boy to the ground and tried to force him to eat the clod of mud, both of them laughing and squirming about the grass, as young boys should do, without a care in the world.

After they had both exhausted each other with fighting and blows thrown with little fists and good intentions, they sat sharing Bahorel's sandwiches, both filthy and exhausted, but happy. Grantaire had never felt this kind of emotion before, never had a comrade, even if Bahorel was a little strange and seemed to be proud of the way his knuckles were scraped and bruised. He wondered for a second if his Mum would like him being friends with such a boy. Probably not. Which only made Grantaire more determined to make Bahorel his new best friend. His parents were like ghosts to him, his Father snoozing in the chair all night and day was less of a Dad but more of a sleeping giant never to wake. His Mother bought him clothes when she found too many holes when doing the laundry, and chided him when she noticed missing cigarettes or found wrappers from little stolen chocolate bars.  
Other than that Grantaire was alone, but never by choice, no boy chooses to be lonely. And Grantaire could feel his heart swell when Bahorel dragged him home for some fish fingers and chips, and almost sighed with happiness when his new friends mother ruffled his hair and fussed over them both before going out with her friends. It wasn't perfect, and that word wasn't something he would ever come to know. But it was something.

It was easy for the two to be friends. If anyone could accuse Grantaire of being a sullen child in his own company, they would eat their words seeing him play with Bahorel. He was the only friend he had ever known, the kindest boy he knew existed, despite his love for settling things with his fists, even at that age. It wasn't long after they became friends that Bahorel's Mother suggested he should find an outlet after he was suspended from school for punching an older kid who touched his pencil-case. Bahorel never started fights without good reason, though even as he grew older he would misjudge who he had the ability to take on, he always fought back hard when he believed it was the right thing to do. Words couldn't solve everything, and anyone who thought that was an idiot in Bahorel's books. 

Bahorel took up boxing first, then a week later he dragged Grantaire in and beat him fair and square. From that point on Grantaire had a new kind of firm determination to enjoy things. Less than a year later he joined the Tennis club. Then after that the Gymnastics society. Soon he hardly had a night free, and that suited him more than fine. He stayed after to help out, and took a paper round in the mornings to get some pocket money to pay his membership fees. He ate at the club for tea, and was home in time to put his pyjamas on and go to bed usually without so much as a hello from his parents. His routine didn't change much as he grew older, he sought no more friends and piled on activities to keep him occupied. Now he could be described as a happy and energetic teen, with plenty of hobbies. He didn't excel in school by no means. It wasn't that he was stupid, he just didn't want to try. He found no joy in fractions and alliteration, so he didn't see why he should have to learn it. 

At Fourteen when they started taking Dominance classes, he saw fun in those for a little while, but they just confused him, and at that age the last thing he needed was more confusion about himself. His interests lied where his talents did, painting angry and emotional canvases in art class, thrashing all the other students in his tennis club with a flick of his strong left wrist. Pretending a stacked fourteen year old in the gym was his Father as he sent him crashing to the floor with his mitt-covered fists, and being praised for it. Sometimes only he could see his achievements. He was punished for not doing well in school, for his grades being abysmally low because he would rather skip math class to hide amongst the kilns and make clay sculptures. But he didn't care what others saw in him. They could look on him and see the scum of the earth, see nothing more than a rat. But he didn't care what other people thought and promised himself he never would. All that mattered was his own mind, clear and free of others thoughts.

******

Sixteen 

Grantaire is sitting in class when it happens. Everything feels normal, he can see Bahorel trying to sneak a look at his notes. He had seen his friend texting someone with a deep frown on his face earlier, he was sure there was something he was up to, he kept making a mental note to ask; but just kept forgetting.  
He barely notices the pencil snap in his hands, the end flying across the desk and leaving a big black smudge on his paper. He could feel it. Not that he knew what it felt like, he just felt confusing emotions, everything all at once and he felt like he might be sick. He feels a longing he couldn't explain if he tried, like his heart was trying to shoot of of his body, reaching for something. For someone.  
He knew about the tug, he had been in the sex ed classes last term. He remembers not paying much attention, Bahorel was sat next to him the whole time mimicking oral sex to him, and Grantaire found it much more funny than the instructor. More often than not the education teachers were just there to sell the idea of abstinence before you felt the tug, both Grantaire and Bahorel had to try and keep straight faces through that, along with many of the other students.  
At this age everyone was on edge and looking for a reason to either fight or scene. Grantaire was in a divided school, so he didn't have the distractions of subs, not that he saw any point in it, it wasn't as if he was about to turn into an uncontrollable beast because a submissive sat in his class without a jumper on.

“Grantaire! Jesus what are you doing!”

The voice snaps him out of his daze, but Bahorel seems to take great pleasure in clocking him in the jaw just to make sure, not hard enough to cause any damage but enough for Grantaire to groan loudly and rub his jaw, realising his other hand was gripping onto the table so hard his knuckles were white from the force.  
“I uh, I don't feel too good,” He murmurs, half lying as he rubs his sore jaw, forcing himself to remove his hand from the desk and looking around to where his teacher and half of the class are staring at him.  
“I'll take him to the nurse,” Bahorel volunteers all too cheerily, hardly even waiting for the nod from their teacher before hauling Grantaire up by his elbow and dragging him out of the class. It doesn't take Grantaire long to realise their heading outside, to the little corner in the field where they smoked. He could admit that sounded much better; he would rather have a smoke than get prodded and poked by a nurse. He knew what it was. That didn't mean he wanted to run around shouting it to faculty members.

“So come on man, what the hell was that?” Bahorel asks him as he plops himself down on the grass and tosses a cigarette at Grantaire, the boy hardly catching it. 

“I felt it.”

Bahorel frowns at him as he lights his cigarette. “Come again?”

Grantaire responds with a grunt, still unnecessarily rubbing his jaw before grabbing the lighter out of the other boys hand and lighting up his own cigarette, taking a long drag. They might be best friends, Bahorel might be all Grantaire had, but it didn't make it feel any less awkward to talk about these things. 

“The fucking- the tug,” He grumbles. “I felt the tug.”

“Shit.”

Grantaire snorts as he looks over to his slightly wide-eyed friend. He hadn't expected a comprehensive reply, Bahorel wasn't the type to reel off advice when you had a problem. He was more likely to punch it. They sit in silence for a while, just smoking, Grantaire calming down his trembling hands. The feeling wasn't as bad as in the classroom, didn't feel crippling, didn't send him off into a daze. But it was still there. It was as if the feeling were travelling, through his body and into the pit of his stomach, resting there, not as intense, but not letting him forget it. 

“You still have nearly a year left of school,” Bahorel says then as if he's trying to reason Grantaire not to follow it.

He snorts in response, running his hand through his unruly curls. “I'm not planning on missing boxing club tonight, never mind the rest of the school year,” He says, taking a drag as Bahorel stares at him with a look of plain confusion. “I'm not going on some crazy hunt to try and find someone I don't even know. I worked hard to stay in school, to stay in all my clubs. I'm not blowing it.”

Bahorel winces a little as if he wants to disagree straight out. “Aren't you curious though?”

“Not really,” He admits, shaking his head and flicking ash into the grass. “He's just a stranger. And likely just a kid like me. The idea of it... It's is just too weird.”

The silence between them wasn't painful but there was an edge of awkwardness that Grantaire could only bear for so long.

“Come on then, tell me whats wrong,” He demands of his friend. His jaw still ached, not much, but enough to remind himself that Bahorel usually solved everything with his quick right hook.

“Sorry man, but I don't get how you can not want to find them,” He says with a shrug, leaning forwards, his elbows propped up on his knees. “How can you not be excited about finding a doe-eyed kneeling sub at the end of the rainbow?”

“I've thought about switching down.”

Grantaire was sure if he was going to carry on dropping these statements, Bahorel would end up with his jaw hanging off on the ground. He didn't mean to shock or surprise him. He just felt like being honest. 

“Nobody respects switches. People would hate you,” He reminds him, the genuine concern for Grantaires welbeing obvious in his voice. 

Grantaire sighs. He knew that. And it was the one thing he was trying to forget. “Would you hate me?” He asks him then. Because that's what was really important. What his friend thought. He couldn't even think about it if Bahorel lost respect for him.

He got a backhand right over the back of his head, making him groan, trying his hardest to glare at him, but ending up smiling anyway. “Had to ask,” He points out with a chuckle.

“I would still love you if you cut off your cock and glued it onto your forehead,” He says with a deadly serious expression which lasted all of five seconds before both boys were lying on the grass in hysterics at the mental image. The silence remained and Grantaire was eternally grateful for it. Just a year ago they had become men together, jerking each other off, sweating and panting sat up on Bahorels bed. And after, when they had drank some stolen beer, smoked a joint and calmed down from their climaxes, they had talked about the future. And Grantaire had been so eager for a boy with soft and straight brown hair whose knees folded whenever he walked into the room, a boy who smiled sweetly and kept his legs parted for his Dominant. But it had just been a boys dream. And he couldn't bring himself to follow a dream. Because all he expected to find at the end of his rainbow was a pot full of dirt. 

******

Eighteen

Grantaire, like most people, had an idea of what his first time would be like. He didn't expect to lie down and make love to his submissive, it had been three years since he ignored the first tug, and he held no false beliefs that they would save themselves for each other. He had this image in his head of his submissive, imagining him to be beautiful and cowering, the envy of all, a prize for the Dominants. His assumptions annoyed him, he knew nothing about his submissive, not their gender or their looks, nothing about them at all. But he liked to imagine meekness, pretty lips, soft hair, brown perhaps. After all he needed something to fuel his morning showers.

Bahorel had felt his tug nearly a year ago, but unlike Grantaire he didn't feel the need to wait, and ran off more than eager to find what was at the end of it. He was gone a month, which reminded Grantaire of how utterly lonely he was, and how the young man was his only friend in the world. When he returned he had a boy with him, he had fierce ginger hair and a thin face, and seemed so passionate about life and about Bahorel, Grantaire found him liking the man very much. As soon as they had both enough money they had got a flat together, two tiny box bedrooms, a fridge and a shower was all the boys needed. He almost moved out when Bahorel brought his partner home with him for good, but Grantaire was out of the flat so often they both decided it wasn't an issue. He was eternally grateful for that, while it was his idea to begin with, he would feel far too lonely if he had to live alone. 

But before Feuilly came to live with them, Bahorel and Grantaire were inseparable. While they had both discovered the joys of whiskey at the tender age of fifteen in Bahorel's bedroom, eighteen, being legal to enter bars changed a lot for them. Grantaire remembers that age of fifteen with warmth in his heart, everything was about experimenting. They didn't have much but each other, and both of them at that age had proclaimed they didn't need anything else. 

Bahorel's Father had took off before he was born and his Mother, like Grantaire's, spent a lot more time with his friends than her teenage son. But she was much nicer, approved of Bahorel having a friend, and never made any complaints to the fact Grantaire practically lived on Bahorel's bedroom floor. They shared everything together, toked their first joint sat on Bahorel's bed, discovered a taste for cinema and rock music. Grantaire wasn't Bahorel's first kiss, but Bahorel was Grantaire's, it was drunken and rough, even at fifteen they were both Dominants fighting for control. But that always went to Bahorel, the man was born Dominant and Grantaire hadn't even begun to find himself. They touched each other in sleepy morning bliss and discovered what anothers body felt like, touches that left as many bruises as their boxing matches did. There was only friendship in it, a mutual curiosity that they both knew would never blossom into anything. Some days Grantaire thought he could fall in love with Bahorel, if he really tried. But he knew it would never be, they would never be like that.

He lived in his small flat with Bahorel, and then with Bahorel and Feuilly, a cramped damp place that served as home more than anywhere else ever had for him. He worked any job he could take, his grades were nowhere near good enough for him to even consider taking the path to college then university, though Bahorel managed to scrape his way onto a sports course, and Feuilly could move easily for him. With Bahorel's mouth it didn't take long for his business to get customers and for Feuilly to be happy being his own person again. The submissive owned his own business, that anyone would describe as admirable. He worked off a little market stall every day, buying items that were often described as scrap, and renovating them to sell on. He bought for far too much and sold for much too little, but the sub always had a smile on his face at the end of the day, and always declared that a good deed was far more rewarding than a full pocket. 

Unlike the driven Feuilly and the passionate Bahorel, Grantaire had quickly lost his youthful spark. He saw no desire in spending more time in a dull classroom, and no profession called to him. Instead he spent his time working menial dead end jobs, anywhere that would take someone unqualified, and willing to put his broad shoulders to work for basic pay. He had cleaned shit stained mens rooms, he had been security for empty and mind-numbingly boring car parks, he had flipped burgers for a week. 

Once he sold a painting. Just one, just two-hundred and fifty euros for it, but it was the most amazing night ever. He didn't even spend it, despite his urge to blow it all on a good night in the clubs, he had rolled up the notes in an elastic band and put it under his mattress. That money was his greatest accomplishment to date, and he was determined he would save it for something meaningful. 

Whatever income didn't go on his rent though, went on the clubs. Most of the time Bahorel was his partner in crime, and he kissed submissives near the bar until his jaw ached, until they sloped off to find a conquest better for them. Grantaire was never first choice, and even when they did finally submit to choosing him, he declined. It wasn't as if he held his virginity close to his heart, as if he was keeping it for a special someone. But he had an idea. And a desperate submissive, drunk and stinking of sex and alcohol, wasn't what he had imagined. Of course Bahorel heard a completely different story. Often they parted and found each other again as the night dwindled to a stop, and Grantaire would brag of the submissives dripping off him, desperate to spend a night with the great and handsome Dominant Grantaire. Bahorel was always good enough to pretend to believe his fibs, never once calling him out on how his life really wasn't going in any direction at all.

******

 

Twenty

Grantaire always had a fascination with skin. It was something he enjoyed privately, he didn't share the thought with Bahorel. He felt it was something he should only appreciate about submissives. But he loved the way Bahorel;s skin was darker, like creamy coffee, from a place he had never been, nor was likely to visit. He liked how his skin was tauter around his abdomens was than Grantaire's. Despite his many hobbies, he had a fondness for fried food which left him with a slight roundness, not noticeable when clothed, but undressed the ever so slight thickness of his thighs was visible, a podge daring to form at his stomach. 

He was looking at skin in the club that night. He wasn't confident being on his own, even with a bottle of beer in his hand, wearing his bracelet that signified him as a single submissive; he missed Bahorel. He closed his eyes for a second and imagined his friend, forcing Feuilly on his knees and prying his pale mouth open. He was sending shivers down his own spine. He felt that feeling, deep into his stomach, it always felt stronger when he was aroused, or when he was surrounded by a lot of Dominants. The club was mixed, more so than usual. He had come here a few times with Bahorel just for drinks, watched people disappear into the back rooms and reappear utterly disheveled. 

“Kneel.”

Grantaire spins around clutching his beer, staring at a man who must be in his thirties, with hands the size of Grantaire's head. “Excuse me?” He stutters, looking around to make sure the large man is surely talking to him.

“I said Kneel boy. I don't like ordering subs twice.”

Grantaire had his chance. He had always thought about it, switching down for someone bigger, Someone stronger. He knew he was Dominant by nature, and it might be frowned upon to switch down, but he didn't care. It was his choice what he wanted to do, and screw everyone else. He gives the man one last look before sinking to his knees, and closing his eyes.

**

He vomited twice when he got home. Curled up in bed in the darkness trying not to tremble, he felt disgusting. He had bruises on his hips, his lips were chapped and his scalp ached. He hadn't said no, those words never left his lips. But he wished he had. Wished he had wrenched the mans hand away from his mouth, from his head, from his entire being. He just wanted to forget, reaching for the vodka they had saved for parties, and emptied the bottle. That was the first night Grantaire had slept in darkness, no dreams, no waking with a minor hangover and a dry mouth. There was nothing but black for nearly twenty hours until he woke up screaming. 

The next time he drank that much he woke up with the worst hangover of his life, but he didn't wake up scared; terrified and alone. And the third time he did it, he drank in the morning as well to push the hangover back down like a sleeping dragon, its flamed doused. And then it became more frequent. He couldn't go back to the clubs after that night, it felt raw, and he wanted to peel his skin off just thinking about setting foot in one. So he drank alone. Sometimes Bahorel would take it off him, tell him enough was enough. But they were drifting apart as friends, Bahorel didn't know what to do, didn't want to see his friend hurt, didn't want Feuilly in a harmful environment. But even still, it took him nearly a year to give up and move out, giving Grantaire more than he owed for his half of the rent, apologising and clapping him on the back more than needed. He came by to visit more than he really should have too. Argued not as much, but was still there to rub Grantaire's back as he vomited, or forced him to eat something that was good for him. 

Sometimes Grantaire thought about going back to Tennis. But he had given that up years ago when he only had time for work and partying with his friends, playing sport wasn't really anything to him then, it was if he had outgrown it, but still thought he would pick it up when he found the time. But that time never came.  
And soon the booze became more. Smoking a joint and drinking absinthe made him vomit even quicker, and he didn't want to sit alone in his squalor snorting coke. He didn't want that kind of buzz. And when in a drunken stupor he bought some smack off a guy in the alley outside his house, it was just another walk on the short plank.  
He was spinning further and further down and didn't even want to help himself. He hadn't spoken to his parents since he left school, and after a while even Bahorel stopped coming. There was only so many times you could try help a man.  
Grantaire ignored that tug in his belly, in his heart. He knew how to numb it now with a pour of a bottle and a tap on a needle. He didn't want to seek it. The only thing Grantaire was intent on seeking was darkness and nothing else.


	2. The Gift of a Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologise this took a while, one of the authors had a small stress out about the chapter. But, Enjoy.

The realization of the unjust system doesn't come to Enjolras in a sudden flash of brights, or even with a slap over the head from his father. No, it comes to him _slowly_. And by his thirteenth birthday just as he's thrown into the first submissive class, he has a bitter taste in his mouth.  
Because, Enjolras wasn't blind to it. No, he could see it, the polite submissives dancing around the skirts of older Dominants. The classes, the submissive classes which taught the greatness, the power of a Dominant and how they would be so lucky to meet the one that emotionally owned them.

Of course, that was the ideal. The ideal was to find the tug in your heart, follow it and wrap your fingers around it. Dance around and be polite to whatever Dominant you met until then. But Enjolras had to be frank; and honest.  
He didn't want to, and he knew for certain not all these people would want to, why would they want to have their opinions silenced simply because Dominants were supposed to be greater? No, Enjolras wasn't having any of it.

That wasn't to say Enjolras enjoyed disrespect, but he believed it to be earned. Why should he kneel and bow his gaze if he did not wish it? If he didn't think it worth his time, and if this person was showing no sense of knowing that Enjolras was indeed, a person, just like them. Because submissive or not, they were all people. Human into their very core, and why couldn't that be enough? He wished it could be, but it was becoming obvious, even to him, that it wasn't the case.

He could see Combeferre almost drifting out of his company, with him attending to submissive school and Combeferre studying Dominant classes for the most part. The slightly Dominant part in his life had always been Combeferre, since the age six and from then on, the other boy had always been someone he could lean on.

And they do drift apart at that point. For a year there is only text messages and ocassional phone calls until Enjolras calls one night before his fourteenth birthday. He was sat on the blue linen sheets on his bed, his hair damp from a shower and his knee pulled up to his chest. He's picking at the duvet nervously, dialling the number with his other hand. He already feels like it's a bad idea. What if Combeferre doesn't speak to him. What if he's got other friends and every time Enjolras calls he's just annoying him. And when did he become so damn insecure about people?

“Hello?”

“It's my birthday tomorrow.” 

Theres a pause on the other end of the line, a silence that makes Enjolras want to curl up on himself. Once upon a time Combeferre was his best friend, now he wasn't even sure who the man was. And he hadn't even realised that he had paused breathing until he hears Combeferre speak, and exhales loudly.

“Are you having a party? We are doing something right?” He asks, and Enjolras was surprised to find he still sounded like the same kid. He didn't sound like a towering Dominant, didn't want to snub Enjolras because he was a submissive.

“I don't have any plans,” He admits, rolling a piece of fluff from the towel between his thumb and his forefinger. “Maybe you could ah- you could just come over and we could watch some movies? If you wanted.”

“Are those sub classes making you soft?” He asks. Enjolras could almost feel his frown over the phone.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

It's the submissives turn to frown then. “I am not entirely sure what that is even supposed to mean.”

“Yes, I don't know, silly thing to say really...” Combeferre says, trailing off. “Want me to come over at four? I think my Mum can drop me off, I'll ask her when she gets home from work.”

“Will you sleepover?”

“Yes, of course. I'll see you tomorrow alright birthday boy? Get some sleep before I come over.”

And just like that the phone clicks off and Enjolras feels like a weight is lifted off his shoulders.

He tugs the duvet over himself and groans, putting the phone at the nightstand beside him and shutting his eyes, not that he thought he'd be able to sleep exactly, he hadn't seen Combeferre in person for almost a year and tomorrow they'd see each other again. What if he looked different? What if he walked different- Not that Enjolras is entirely sure how that would affect anything in their friendship.

But no matter how logical thoughts tried to pick at his brain, he didn't fall asleep until three in the morning, tossing and turning until finally his mind agreed on shutting down and letting him rest.

**

He wakes up eight hours later, way past his first morning class and no one is home. His parents were working, in fact, both of them were on a business trip which had gathered him the courage to call Combeferre last night.

Enjolras pulls himself out of bed, his blonde curls are just about everywhere, half long and messy on top of his head. He hadn't cut it since he was about eleven; It hadn't been the original plan to not cut it, but once he'd gotten it at this length he decided it was definitely a lot easier to tie up and keep out of his face the longer it got.

He spends most of the day drinking caffeine and trying to figure out if he should dress any way specific, but as much as he worried about Combeferre's and his own friendship he hardly doubted it would hang onto which ripped and ruined jeans he put on. He wasn't sure when he started getting into these moods. It was recent, his mind telling him that he should be more self-conscious, should think on pleasing others instead of himself. Sometimes he wanted to fight it, fuck, he wanted to go out in a dress and boots and fuck everyone else. But what if someone made a comment. More importantly, what if a Dominant made a comment. He was torn between feelings, wanting approval from Dominants, but not wanting to bow down to them. He could get away with blaming his genetic makeup for how he felt, but that wouldn’t make his feelings vanish. And of course it was different with Combeferre, he was his friend, and Enjolras had feelings for him. It wasn't as if he sat up and touched himself thinking about his friend, nothing like that. He just would rather have Combeferre approve instead of disapprove.

He settles for his favourite jeans and his red hoodie after he had showered, playing the birthday message that his parents had left on the answering machine. They had left him some money in a birthday card, which he had ripped open this morning and stuck up in the window. There were a few more kids he could invite round if he wanted to, that sub he had made friends with in class, or he could have even asked Combeferre if he wanted to bring someone. But perhaps it would be better just the two of them, Enjolras had missed that.

Punctual as always, the doorbell rings at exactly four o'clock, and Enjolras finds himself grinning just a little as he hurriedly opens the door to Combeferre.  
He presses back the smile as he meets the gaze with the somewhat older boy, even if it was just by a few months he was older and Enjolras feels relieved at the sight of him.

Combeferre is still the same dirty blonde, with clothes perhaps not as fashionable as one would think. Dressed in a minty collared shirt and a light grey cardigan over it, his jeans dark washed and properly fitted. The glasses he's wearing are simple, and he's still growing into whatever he's wearing.

“It's just us?” he asks, peeking into the house and stepping inside as Enjolras steps aside to let him in. No matter how long it had been Enjolras thought it surprisingly easy to step into usual routines, even if he had been nervous about this. All his hormones were picking at him, and they irritated him to no ends. Making him wonder, making him briefly look to the back of Combeferre's thighs before chastely dropping his gaze and turning to close the door.

“It's just us, I thought it might be good, to catch up,” he explains, turning back around. Hesitating where he stands, weighing on his bare feet.

“You can give up the act now,” Combeferre says in his soft voice. Enjolras thought it strange, and slightly unfair that he hardly seems to have changed a bit.

“What act?” He asks him, looking down at his hands, which were by his sides, palms open towards Combeferre. He quickly flexes his fingers, balling his hands up into fists.

“They teach you some rubbish things in school,” He says with a small smile, holding out a card to Enjolras. Enjolras nodded in agreement, silent and thoughtful. He hadn’t even realised he had been presenting himself so openly to Combeferre. It wasn't as if he wanted his friend to bring him to his knees and take his virginity; it wasn't like that.

He opens up the card, unable to stop his little grin as he sees that on the front of the card is a little rosette styled badge in blue, with 'Birthday Boy' written in big cartoonish letters. He picks it off the card, undoing the pin and pushing it into his hoodie, making sure it was straight, before pulling Combeferre in for a slightly awkward thank-you hug.  
He was relieved to find the awkwardness wasn't because of who they were, because Combeferre identified Dominant. It was simply because hugging was quite rare for teenagers, Dominant or submissive. But for Enjolras, it had been too long.

The awkwardness of the hug isn't long, with Combeferre tugging the submissive boy closer and Enjolras presses his nose against Combeferre's shoulder in a sense of relief and comfort. He tries to remember the last time someone hugged him, and he doesn't think he can remember anyone except Jehan and that had still been a little while now.

“Just because they teach you senseless things in school doesn't make this a bad thing, the submissiveness,” the Dominant boy says, one hand resting on Enjolras lower back and the other in between his shoulder blades.

“I am aware,” he mutters in response. He felt uneasy about it, the submissive feeling gnawing in his stomach once he laid down in bed, once he was alone and tired after reading and researching. He knew it wasn't, well wrong. But he also knew he wasn't any less worth than anyone else, and the feeling he got in school was certainly not that. It didn't make him feel like he could be his own person, just that he should obey Dominants mindlessly.

He pulls back from the hug, adjusting the badge on his hooded jacket and clearing his throat a little. Gathering up his courage which he knew he didn't need, it was just Combeferre, and that hug and much else more than confirmed that. He still smelled of washing powder and menthol.

“You want to talk about school? Or do you just want to order chinese food and watch R-rated movies?” Combeferre asked him with that same grin. He was so polite and kind, it was his gentle nature that had made Enjolras want to be friends with him from the out.

“I haven't had chinese in ages,” He says taking with an excited grin, taking his hand and tugging him into the cinema room.

Enjolras had yearned for days like this. He ends up tugging out his school work and comparing it with Combeferre's for a lot of the afternoon. He had been furious to find that the submissives curriculum studied lot easier subjects, despite the fact that there was no evidence to suggest that Dominants were cleverer than the submissives. Enjolras hardly saw it as fair, and made Combeferre promise to lend him some textbooks, even tutor him in a few things.

Most of Enjolras birthday is like this, discussions and intriguing discoveries with Combeferre. It wasn't all the things they exactly spoke about when they were younger, but to see they had both grown to realise the same things made his flame burn like no other, his passion for the equality of the people. Of the submissives, of everyone.

The night isn't much different, and they definitely aren't early to bed. And when the boys finally exhaust themselves, eager discussions at rest in their tired heads as they are finally laid in the bed, curled slightly around each other. Enjolras feels content, the uneasy feeling he's felt for weeks seem slightly settled with the knowledge that Combeferre is still around, and his new discoveries weren't disdained, but welcomes, and this other boy saw them as well.

Enjolras falls asleep at ease that night, perhaps the first time in many nights since his discovery. It breaks his heart every step of the way, even as he's just started to dip his toes into these discoveries and this fight. But Combeferre's presence calms him, at least for tonight. And that will have to do.

 

**

Fifteen came and went and soon Sixteen was on Enjolras, and the world began to feel so much more real. He would be going to College after the summer, it would be co-ed, meaning that he would be taking classes with students who identified as Dominants, and his usual submissive peers. He was most excited about Combeferre, who had expressed an interest in taking submission classes with Enjolras. Though the only problem there, was he hadn’t exactly decided if he was going to take them. He didn't feel like he wanted lessons on how to be a sub, how to submit, how to beg, how to fuck. Sure he knew a few things, he had watched porn a total of three times and been entirely uninterested, and there were mandatory Dom-sub education seminars every six months. He wasn't some kind of dog who needed lessons. He had spoken to quite a few friends about it.

He was charismatic and held a conversation well, and had learnt how to stand and speak to get Dominants to actually show him respect. He had met a friend through Combeferre, a younger student named Courfeyrac and they had become fast friends despite all their differences.

Courfeyrac was the youngest of anyone Enjolras had got to know over the past years. Definitely the most energetic, and the most lovable being after Jehan. For just being fourteen years old Courfeyrac  
was surprisingly aware of things. Flirty? Yes definitely. But aware and taking in all the issues Enjolras and Combeferre saw in the Dominant/submissive society? More than grown Professors Enjolras had tried to reason with. On top of it all, the boy was a Dominant, his bubbly personality and his constant grinning and loving flirting threw all of the usual things associated with Domination right out the window. He wasn't cruel, he wasn't strict. Of course, Enjolras didn't doubt Courfeyrac was probably able to be all those things, and of course he could get angry, but it wasn't constantly noticeable.

Enjolras and Combeferre had started more and more meeting up and chatting at a café not too far from where either of them lived, and not too far from the school either. The Musain it was named, it wasn't bursting with people constantly and for the most part the waitress was friendly and even seemed rather familiar with most people who came into the café; and Enjolras did notice a pattern, and the friendly and familiar tone of the waitress turned to them as well after Combeferre's and Enjolras fifth time coming to the café.

More and more frequently Enjolras had been thinking about how unfair he found the world, relieved to find his friends agreeing. Enjolras didn't want to be treated like a second class citizen because he was a submissive. And unknown to anyone but Enjolras, Combeferre was too afraid to come out as a Switch. It wasn't exactly an easy world for someone who didn't identify firmly.

Enjolras wasn't his loud and passionate self today though, last night something had happened that made him feel a little sick. He had built himself up a routine, he would always shower before bed, lie down on his red sheets, and touch himself until he saw stars. But last night, as his hand tugged at his cock he felt it. He felt a wrenching in his heart, a pooling in his belly which was a thousand times more powerful than an orgasm. And every muscle in his body screamed at him to get up, to run, get to where he needed to be; where he belonged. But Enjolras hadn't moved. He had laid there, sharp and frustrated pants escaping him until the feeling became a burn he had to force himself to ignore.

And now Enjolras was sat at the usual table at the Musain, his hair pulled back a bit loosely and a cup of coffee in front of him. He'd just come back from something with Combeferre, and Courfeyrac had followed him all the way to the Musain before leaving him to make his way to class since Combeferre had headed off to the library.

He turns the coffee cup with his fingers, taking a sip as he glances at the door waiting for Jehan. They'd promised to meet here, though he was unsure if the other submissive was truly feeling up for it.  
However it didn't take long for Jehan to slump to the cafe. The downstairs served food and coffee, and everywhere knew upstairs was a bar that wasn't exactly legal, but for some reason the police never seemed to do a thing about it. Jehan was dressed in a hideous russet coloured jumper that looked about three sizes too big for him, and at least twice his age. He orders himself tonic water, tugging his knees up to rest his heels on the edge of the chair.

“Hey, sorry im late,” He mumbles into his jeans, not really paying much attention to Enjolras. Anyone else might think him rude, might even think them not friends at all. But lately Jehan cared about nothing. Less than a month ago he had been sitting with his poetry club in the library when he had felt it, telling him to go outside, not to run or seek, just to go out of the library. But nobody had been there for him.  
When a friend found him sobbing on the grass, she had taken poor Jehan to see a nurse, who had explained all about a false tug. It was rare, but more common in submissives, the feeling of the tug that lead to nothing at all. It might mean that the submissives mind had been playing tricks on them, or it might be something more grave; like the death of a Dominant. Even though death was very unlikely, Jehan mourned, acted as if he would never find his Dominant, would be alone forever. And just four short weeks hadn't done anything to heal him; he had let his emotional wounds fester, and had refused help from most who offered it. This coffee meeting with Enjolras was the first time he had been out in four days.

Enjolras isn't ignorant to the state his friend was in, he saw it and it ached him to see anyone like this, yet alone someone he cared for as Jehan.

“It'll be okay,” he starts, a try. He never knows how to formulate his thoughts when it came to comforting, he was never the best at making someone feel better through words. Though he could perhaps rally an army of submissives and Dominants, he couldn't figure out how to formulate his support for Jehan without sounding like he was speaking out of no experience.

“I am not going anywhere, if that helps? I- Well, I felt the tug the other night, but I don't have the time for it,” Enjolras says, his gaze on the other submissive as he rests his forearms against the round table they are sat at. He had felt the tug yes, the burning feeling last night had been unmistakeable, even if he had no interest in going to look for it and just leave all the great things he'd started here. 

Jehan's jaw was wide open, staring at him.

Not saying a word.

Just staring.

“Jehan is-”

Enjolras barely registers the slap across his face, hearing a few lookers by gasp, blinking as his brain catches up.

“How dare you!” He hears Jehan yelling, blinking more to see the submissive on his feet, bellowing at Enjolras, for what, he had no idea.

“Jehan can you please calm down?”

Jehan laughs then, but its bitter and not like anything Enjolras had heard from him before. “It's one thing...one thing to throw your tug in my face,” He hisses, leaning down to him, hands on the table. “But its another to tell me how you are going to ignore it, as if it means nothing.”

“It doesnt mean anything, it's just a feeling!”

“It means something to me!”

Enjolras is stunned into silence then, standing up, trying to be calm. But part of him didn't want to be. Jehan shouldn’t be so emotional all the time, over some stupid tug that dictated their lives. Why should it? Especially the submissives, why should they run just because a feeling in their gut tells them to.

“I'm sorry Jehan, I just don't understand your point of view.”

“Only my friends get to call me Jehan,” He says, wiping his tears on his sleeve as he picks up his satchel.

Enjolras could only shoot him a pained expression. He couldn't even bring himself to shout after Jehan, or to stand up and run when the slightly older sub walked out of the cafe. He knew he was right, he was entitled to his feelings. Perhaps he handled it wrong, but emotions, well Enjolras was never very good at those.

 

**

 

A year goes by without Enjolras or anyone at the Musain seeing Jehan around much. And if was around, he isn't speaking with Enjolras much. Out of pure stubbornness both of them stray from each other, ignoring each other and stealing glances when the other isn't looking.

A year is as long as they keep it up however, before Jehan knocks on Enjolras door and starts hanging around with him at the Musain again. Jehan a bit too thin, and Enjolras hair so much longer than it had been when they first met, the both of them stunning, could be twins in some mannerisms but still they were so different.

Exactly one year and two months after they've gone back to being friends, not that either of them will really say they had this pause in their friendship. Enjolras denied it, and he only admitted to it to Jehan and Combeferre, he saw no reason why anyone else should know. Even if everyone had seen them not hang around each other at the Musain.

But now he was sat on his sofa, Jehan leaning against him and their eyes on some nature documentary on the tv which Enjolras had left it on while working on his laptop.

“What's it like?”

Jehan was sprawled over the small couch, his long legs dangling off the end, a textbook in his hand. He shared his flat with a chemistry student who was never home, which suited Jehan fine. It was often almost as if he had the place to himself. He was studying Art History half-heartedly; right now he was studying for a make-up test from the end of last semester. Schools weren't sympathetic when it came to people with mental sickness, and even though Jehan's Manic Depression often left him unable to function for days on end, it didn't mean his lecturers cut him any slack.  
He turns to look at Enjolras, who was sat in the space next to him, his back.

“What is what like?” He asks chirpily, a smile on his face. He was in a relatively good mood, of course the presence of Enjolras had helped with that. They were never really best friends. In school Jehan leaned on Enjolras more than he should, and Enjolras had a lot more to worry about than the sad clingy little boy who didn't fit in anywhere. When Jehan had his false tug, Enjolras couldn't comprehend what the fuss was about, and Jehan took it to heart too much, resulting in him not speaking to Enjolras for a year.

He furrows his brow as he thinks, rubbing his fingers over the back of his other hand. He had his blonde hair undone, curls resting against his shoulders in a wild mess and some curls in front of his face.

“Sex,” he says surprisingly bluntly. He could blush and he could even stutter but when it came to something as basic as this, it wasn't scary to him. He was curious as to how it felt yes, but he wasn't especially scared of doing it. And ashamed was definitely not in his vocabulary about this. It was a basic need, a good need; nothing wrong with it.

“It's...I think it's really nice,” He admits, putting his textbook down and sitting himself up, resting against the armrest so he can look at Enjolras instead of leaning on him. He had lost his virginity in Freshers week before college had even started, he had kept that up for a while, before seeing someone else. They were both Dominants, and it was never as if Enjolras was the type to be able to hide his orientation, he oozed submission, and he was more than happy to submit. “It hurt the first time, I cried a little. But he just held me for a little while, then it didn't hurt so bad. Why are you even asking, gosh, wanna try it?”

Enjolras keeps his gaze focused on Jehan as he tugs his foot up under his own thigh to sit on.  
“Why not?” he asks then, and he wasn't sure if Jehan realised he meant that they should try it together, but he did want to try it out, see what it was like. He didn't believe in the single minded classes, that the school had taught them. It made him ill to think it was his duty of some sort; if he wanted it to be, sure. But as of currently he had no interest for any Dominant, not even for the one that tugged heat into his belly at random moments in time.

“We're both submissive, but I don't see why that should stop it,” he says. He'd seen, and he knew very well Dominants could get together. So why not submissives?

Jehan looks at him in surprise, he hadn't expected that. “Are you sure?” he asks him hesitantly, Enjolras immediately nodding at him. He never thought Enjolras's first time would be with him, but he had no complaints about it. He wanted Enjolras to know what it was like to feel loved. He moves forwards, kissing him gently, their lips barely brushing before moving back, a slight pink tinge to his cheeks.

“How was that?” He asks, as if he expects Enjolras the virgin to chide him, say he was an awful kisser and should never come near him again. Jehan certainly had too many worries.

There's a taste of strawberries on Enjolras lips after the kiss, and there is nothing in him wanting to resist that. So, he licks his lips, barely even taking in what Jehan says, except for asking how it was. He leans over, mumbling “Good,” under his breath as he kisses Jehan again firmer this time.

His kiss is new, inexperienced but he is full of curiosity and knowledge from things he'd seen. Practice makes perfect, and Enjolras wanted to try. He tugs up his other leg on the sofa, both feet against the soft cushions as he kisses Jehan. It doesn't take long for Jehan to part his lips just a little, letting out a little giggle, which makes Enjolras pull back in shock.

“No...no don't, I'm sorry,” He says only giggling more, grabbing his top to pull him closer again, sucking on his bottom lip, before pulling back just an inch or so. “I kinda...when I’m aroused, and nervous.. I giggle a lot,” He explains to him. “I mean I giggle when I am nervous on its own, and when I am having sex I tend to...ah I am blabbering aren't I?”

Enjolras laughs along with him, silencing him with another kiss, a lasting one this time, putting all his passions into it. He could feel Jehan's arousal as he presses their bodies together, causing stirrings in his own.

They break the kiss to breath after a short while, Enjolras having ended up on top of Jehan, their crotches pressed tight together and he leans in a little closer to the poet to push their noses together.  
He hesitates before grinding their crotches together, causing them both to moan and them to drop their heads to rest their foreheads together.

“I want to fuck, is that okay?” Enjolras asks bluntly, looking down into the other boy's eyes.

Jehan turns red all over, looking away from him, hesitant for a second. He pushes him off him and stands, his erection quite visible in his skinny jeans, pressed up against the rough fabric. He holds out his hand, taking Enjolras's and pulling him to stand, walking them into his bedroom. His flatmate might be cool, but Jehan was sure he wouldn’t want to walk into them having sex on the couch.

“We're going to make love, not _fuck_ ,” He tells him, kissing him again. “And I am going to take care of you, and you'll take care of me. Right?”

Jehan was always so scared of not being looked after, being left alone. Enjolras bumping his nose against his ear brings him back to earth. “I promise,” He whispers, kissing Jehan's ear. “I just want to do it. Fuck...I mean, make love.”

He wasn't as used to the sweeter terms, what he researched on the internet didn't dance around the issue of what it was, but this wasn't his worry right now. His attention was on Jehan, and Jehan's attention was on his.

“We'll take care of each other,” he promises again, earning a smile from the older submissive and they kiss again, stood right inside Jehan's room by the door.

Jehan breaks it, just barely to tug Enjolras along to bed, who follows after him without hesitation, both of the boys are blushing somewhat, aroused and erect. The older submissive tugs Enjolras into bed with him, and in a brief moment of failing limbs Enjolras knocks his ankle against the wall and he curses, sitting up in the bed.

“Are you okay?!” Jehan exclaims in surprise, but the boy laughs and their heads bump together, causing Jehan to smile as well.

“I am fine,” Enjolras says as the other boy tugs off his sock and rubs his sore ankle. He was astonished by the amount of love Jehan seemed to have just radiating off him as he leans down to press a kiss to his ankle, slowly kissing his way up, until his mouth is inches away from his crotch area, and his fingers are trembling as he unbuttons his jeans.

“I watched ah- I watched porn before I came here,” Enjolras admits, turning red, his erection twitching against Jehan's palm as he remembers. It had been hard to find two subs fucking without Dominants leering nearby and watching, or without rigid sets. But he found one that he thought were just genuine amateurs, watching the two submissives fuck each other.

Jehan pushes down Enjolras's jeans, his underpants too, the blonde kicking them off, and moving to take his top off two, completely naked under the covers. Jehan follows suit quickly, getting himself a little stuck in his top, needing Enjolras's help, which only makes the pair laugh more, putting them both more at ease.

Once Jehan gets out of the top, the boys are laughing and pressed close under the covers. Not much about this moment was completely serious, both of them new to this, both of them unsure of who was to take the lead, and Enjolras ended up naturally taking the lead he knew best. It might not be in his nature, but Jehan follows suit with it, and they help each other, explore each other.

They toss around for a while, roll around and by a few failed attempts they end up comfortable with Jehan in Enjolras lap, their arms around each other and the slow thrusting and their soft panting. Their bodies slick with sweat, aching limbs from awkward thrusting and odd positions. And by the end, Jehan has collapsed on top of Enjolras, their loose hair curling together and making a mess of hair on top of the pillows in strawberry blonde and golden blonde locks. And even though Enjolras feels exhausted, aching and sore after all of that, he feels in a state of bliss, at least as much bliss as he's been able to feel in a while.

They fall asleep messy, sweaty and limbs tangled together. The soft rise and fall of their chests, pressed together in a content tangle of limbs and hair. It is the first time they sleep in the same bed since the break in their friendship, and it isn't about to be the last.

**

Two weeks after his twentieth birthday Enjolras was a bundle of nerves. He could feel Combeferre's hand press into his under the table, but it only seemed to help a little bit. Like most he supposed, he had grown out of his awkward phase. He learnt to stand tall, to speak with a confident voice that made everyones head turn. Nobody thought he was a Dominant; but more importantly, nobody treated him like a sub eager to submit. There were few, on rare occasions, but Enjolras paid them no mind, and he knew how to defend himself if he ever needed to.

Tonight was the first meeting of Les Amis de l'ABC, and he was still nervous that nobody was going to turn up. Throughout the week he and Jehan had handed out flyers, while Combeferre and Courfeyrac had spread the word of mouth.

He knew he reasonably had all reasons to be nervous now, the whole week they had been preparing for this. It had been a huge matter, and of course the matter had been important. Everyone was welcome to the Musain, as long as they ordered something, a drink, anything, they could come listen. He was sure there would come people, he had no worry about that. He was worrying about who would stand with him, who would stick around after his speech and who would believe in what he said.

All sorts of people have already made their way into the Musain, a dark haired submissive kneeled at one of the darker tables in the corner by the feet of a beautiful blonde, most likely Dominant. They'd sat down in the quieter part of the bar, but still in view of the table where Combeferre and Enjolras are sat, and the golden haired submissive boy could see them clearly as he glances across the room with people gathering inside. He could almost feel their curiosity across the room and he is curious, but he'll leave them to decide what they thought on their own. If they approached later on or not was up to them.

Either way, it was going to be the start of something new; at least that is what the strong submissive hoped. He shouldn’t be oppressed because of his orientation. Nobody should feel pressured to conform. The government shouldn't pressure them to choose one orientation, shouldn’t put so much on the bond. Enjolras knew it was important, but so were other things. And he shouldn’t be expected to kneel and stay quiet.

He was doing neither of those things now, standing on the chair, and then the table. One by one everyone in the café fell silent before he even uttered a word. The two beautiful men talking to Musichetta both turned to him. Jehan slid off Courfeyrac's lap and looked up at him with an encouraging glance. And as he began to speak; the people listened. They wanted to hear what Enjolras had to say. And it made his heart soar.

Most of the people stayed the entire speech, it wasn't a quick one, and Enjolras did his best to confront every issue and butt heads with anyone who tried to convince him the traditional way of submissives couldn't be changed. But he had Combeferre on noting who agreed, and most who agreed inched closer to the table during the speech, the rest, closer to the door. But most stayed, even if they didn't agree and left.

But by the end of it, Enjolras had eight bright and eager minds around him. All of them stuck around, discussing rights and ideas over drinks. And Enjolras felt at home.


	3. Warmth Is Right Behind You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Graphic Violence in this chapter, and brief sexual content.
> 
> You can see our Fancast [Here](http://foxyjolras.tumblr.com/post/53111600146/rod-fancast-cameron-bailey-as-bahorel-gustav)  
> here 
> 
> And ask the Authors any questions, or comments [Here](http://foxyjolras.tumblr.com/ask) or [Here](http://yournameinmyhands.tumblr.com/ask)

Grantaire had been aware of the knocking for the past hour. Getting out of bed though, that was too much for him. He knew it was Bahorel. Every month or so he and Feuilly would come by and try convince Grantaire to eat something, to sit with someone, to get help.

Usually he let the two buy him a sandwich; practically swallowing it whole before leaving them. He was too twitchy to be around them, and Bahorel never gave him money, he knew he would just go and shoot it into his arm.

The only thing that kept him alive was that twisting in his gut, focusing on the pain it caused. He wondered if his submissive would care Grantaire was nothing but a worthless addict. That he had traded all he cared about for a needle to numb the fire in his heart.

He was burning, burning from the inside out, fuelling his own fire, destroying himself. And he couldn't even roll over to answer the door that Bahorel was banging on. He couldn't even do that anymore. Maybe the knocking stopped. Or maybe Grantaire just stopped listening. He had a habit of that, God, he had a habit of everything. In a different life maybe he would be addicted to his submissive, instead of blowing dealers for his next hit.

Once sex had meant something to him. He had idealistic dreams once of losing his virginity for someone who cared about him. But doesn't everyone dream of that?

He still finds himself waking in a cold sweat and reaching for the bottle, that night burned in his mind. He should have never said yes, and there’s another thing he blames himself for. If he had just said no, maybe the Dom would have never fucked him. But he submitted, and that makes it his own fault, doesn't it? It was his own fault he hated it and let it ruin his life.

But it was never just about that. Grantaire was a failure, always had been, no point in kidding himself anymore. No reason to pretend he had the ability to be a family man. No point acting as if he would ever be a great painter. No need to go to Tennis club or Fencing club or Boxing club and act as if his life was going to amount to anything.

Grantaire was a failure, every part of him. Even his body was apt on giving up on him. He liked to think that. That the whole world had given up on him. He supposed it was easy to forget that Bahorel came by when he could stomach it.  
His friend had always been there for him, but it had been easy to just push him away after a while. He put up barriers and didn't let anyone in. He was born alone, and he felt like the only thing to do now was get high and die alone.

 

 

 

**

All he cared about was getting it. He didn't care how. He would sell himself if he knew it would get him his next hit. It wasn't as if he had any more possessions. His wasting body was his only source of income most of the time, and he had no problems with using it. He would always feel it, that tug in the pit of his belly as if it intended to make him feel guilty for not being true to his ghost of a mate. He might be just as bad, but his submissive had never made any attempts to find him, or he would be here now, and Grantaire would be kissing them goodnight instead of still tasting a client while he shot up on his mattress he called home.

Bahorel still visited on rare occasions, and once or twice Feuilly came by on his own. Always talking about how damn great France was. Of course he did, he had a beautiful bond, a life, a house. He didn't see what it was like to live in the underworld of Paris. Well, he assumed anyway. Grantaire really didn't know that much about Feuilly, and he never bothered to ask either.

After so long though, it became harder and harder to fuck for money. And he could understand why. Not many people wanted to fuck an ugly junkie. And Grantaire had never much luck in the beauty department before his life went down the toilet, now he looked even worse.

His nose was always running, his eyes red and sore. His cheeks were hollow, all he ate were sweets, he went through a full jar of jam in twenty minutes when he bought one. His skin was filthy and covered in scabs, from picking at his skin when it took too long for him to get the next dose.

The state of the apartment with his own drop of a mood and health was obvious, it had never been the best place, it was always in some kind of mess. But in the current state, it was weird to imagine anyone living here at all, in the mess and the filth, the only things relatively clean were his brushes, and his paintings were stood canvas facing against the wall. Last time he dropped he burned them all up and Bahorel had to help keep him from burning the whole place down.

And with barely being able to afford the rent, he couldn't afford the drugs without a quick fuck or a blowjob. But with none of that extra cash coming in, he was broke, and broke meant for drastic measures.

And with drastic measure, getting a job wasn't exactly on his mind. Because what he really needed, he could get; surely if he was quick enough he could get a hold of it relatively easily. It wasn't like his dealer was clever, in fact he was rather daft most of the time. Though Grantaire had met more airheads in his life, and he didn't know his dealer that well. But what more could there be to him then his pretty clothes and his smug expression, Really? He spent half of his time getting sucked by waif-like subs who hung around him like he was a drug, and it annoyed Grantaire to no end that he could see the appeal.

But the man who he only knew by 'Parnasse knew Grantaire was a Dominant, and it was quite evident he enjoyed someone who would bend over for him, even if they put up a little fight in the beginning. He liked them naturally submissive, and even for money, Grantaire hadn't been properly Dominant since that stranger in the club. He fucked seedy submissives who made his skin crawl, had let ashamed switches pay to suck him off and had sucked of Dom's, as long as they agreed that it wasn't a scene, he didn't do that.

He knew his dealer was a switch, maybe Grantaire would have broken his rules and let him put those cherry lips wherever he liked for a hit. But Parnasse had said on more than one occasion that Grantaire wasn’t going to get any of his goods in exchange for sex. Though he often pointed him in the direction of some of his perverted clients. As he put on his old beaten up trainers and got ready to leave, he had to clench and unclench his fists to stop them shaking, though that did nothing to stop the chills and shaking wracking through the rest of his body. He needed a hit and he needed it fast.

The night air was definitely not helping with the twitchy, shuddering spasms in his limbs. Even with shoes, jacket and a long sleeved shirt underneath the summer night was just as bad as the chilly autumn mornings.

The wind howls through the dark blue sky as Grantaire shows his shivering fingers down his jeans pockets and he felt a stabbing mix of hunger; sniffling as he shrugs his shoulders and walks down the street.  
His burgundy beanie pulled over his ears as he winces at the noise of a dog barking somewhere else down the street; barking hysterically and it made him feel ill. The noise he was familiar with, but the neighbourhood was his own and it might as well be police dogs for what he knew.  
He ignores the girls and boys leaning against the buildings as he keeps on walking, little scared submissives leaning against the wall to try and get a job. He knew the area, had been there himself, not too far from Paraphrase’s apartment.

A sudden fit of coughs stops him, his hand covering his mouth to quiet down the dry noise of his coughs. He presses his ear against the door and digs up a metal piece, bending it and digging it into the lock to work it open, his ear still pressed to the door as he shivers. He knew this time in the morning Parnasse wouldn't be in, he had business hours down at the club, Grantaire had met him before begging for some money. But of course he had been laughed off every time, he was nothing, worthless junkie, and Parnasse didn't owe him any favours. Perhaps that’s why Grantaire didn't feel so bad, and felt sinking relief when the lock gave way, and he could twist the handle and open the door, letting himself in.

He closes it behind himself quietly, putting is lock pick back in his pocket, and bringing his dirty fingers to his mouth, biting at one of the stubby nails quite violently. All he had to do was look for a little oak box. He had seen Parnasse handling it in transactions, and he had seen his hard-earned money get put in that simple little box. He also never remembered seeing a key go with it, which right now was going to be lucky for him.

He stalks his way through the fancy flat, making sure nobody was in before going to the bedroom. He rifles his way through the drawers, the bedside locker, the wardrobe, getting more and more frustrated each time.

He was starting to feel like there actually might be nothing in the flat, when he's digging through the third drawer. His hands are shaking and he is shuddering with withdrawal, a need for more and a certain craving for another spoonful of strawberry jam.

He pulls his hand back and steadies himself on the drawer, shuddering before there is a jabbing feeling in his side causing the shivering Dominant to cry out. It's a sharp pain and it's not until he's down on the floor that he hears the foot steps.

The clicks of the man's heels against the hard floor as he walks up to into the room and sits down on the bed, where Grantaire had rooted through for a certain hard wooden box.

Grantaire manages to glance up, squinting and bursting into a coughing fit again as he glances up at the black polished shoes of the man on the bed. The man's trousers were a dark purple and his full suit was nicely styled, neat and proper as the man leans over and Grantaire is met with the face of Parnasse.

The man didn't look like a man at all, and Grantaire hated it. The redness of his lips, the smirk and the way his thick, dark eyelashes still managed to make the other man look like the devil himself.

“Well what do we have here,” Parnasse cooed, smiling down at him, sickly sweet. If only he could drink that sweetness Grantaire thought, he might feel better, instead of much worse, clutching his stomach.

He watched as a figure from behind him somewhere handed Parnasse an ornate silver cane. He attempted to turn around to see who else was with them, but before he could move more than an inch Parnasse had pressed the cane hard against his temple, preventing him from moving, mainly out of fear for something worse.

He could see Claquesous in the corner of his eye, the elusive pet who always hung around the shadows of Parnasse. He was attached to a thick black leash, kneeling on the floor and staring at Grantaire from behind a thick leather mask. He looked as if he wanted to smirk, which made Grantaire's stomach turn.

“Please Parnasse, I left my watch here last week, I needed to find it,” He begs. He wasn’t above begging and lying, and clearly not stealing. He was a pathetic mess who would do anything to stay alive, albeit on the edge of it.

His quite obvious lie earned him a boot in the back, causing him to arch and groan loudly, Parnasse tutting at him.

“Never lie to a liar,” He purrs, licking his obscenely red lips. “And never steal from a thief little Grantaire.” He paused for effect and Grantaire found himself wincing again when the cane was removed from pressing against his temple.

He watched as Parnasse yanked at the leash, and Claquesous came forwards, kneeling between them. He leans up on his knees, tugging Grantaire up by his collar, before smashing their foreheads together, head-butting Grantaire so hard he falls back with a cry, seeing stars.

He can barely make out the image of Claquesous crawling between Parnasse's legs, but he could hear the wet and hungry sounds of the masked man getting his mouth used as Parnasse stares down at the junkie on his floor.

“You need to be taught a lesson my dear Grantaire, don't you,” He tells him, and suddenly he's hoisted onto his knees, noticing now its Babet and Gueulemer in the room with them, Parnasse's lackeys who often flanked him in public.

He was humiliated, forced on his knees like a sub, Babet grabbing his chin when he casts his eyes downwards, forcing him to meet Parnasse's gaze as the man gets sucked off by his dangerous pet.

Parnasse's gaze was cold, a cold look that he was way too used to look up at. He never associated it with good, and now he felt like vomiting at the sight of it. Another sharp kick in the side makes him turn away from the man's gaze, but still the kicks don't stop this time. There is no merciful pause, and there is no dampening bliss as someone grabs at his hair and slams his head down.

He can't hear the slick noise anymore, he can't hear it he supposes because all he can feel and focus on is one sharp pain after the other. The wet cough escaping his throat as the kicks and punches keep on coming, one after another.

He's been in fights before, of course he's been in fights. Try living in his neighbourhood without a fight every now and then. But this wasn't like those fights, he doesn't land a punch, too cold and disoriented from the lack of drug in his system. He tries to bite, he tries to kick but everything seems too weak, every limb seems to not want to listen.

The kicks and punches feel like a million, and somehow he starts to feel so painfully numb. Spots in his vision, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes like laced together bands of consciousness. He can feel himself losing it as the spots dance in front of his eyes, and he can distantly hear Parnasse cursing and groaning.

“Not yet,” He hears Parnasse shout sharply, and he assumes the command is for Claquesous, until he realises he isn't being hit anymore. There's a groan from one of the men holding him, and all Grantaire can taste is the tang of his own blood, dripping from his left nostril, mixing with the blood bubbling from his burst lip, which had swollen on one side, making his mouth droop slightly. He was panting, and pulled up, his head lolling, feeling too heavy to lift. But once more he was helped out with that, Parnasse sticking the cane under his chin and forcing him to meet his gaze once more.

He could see Claquesous was gone from between Parnasse's legs, though Grantaire felt even more uneasy, now all he could see was Parnasse staring at him, no longer smiling, he could feel Babet and Gueulemer flanking him, hear their heavy breathing mixed with his own rasping wheezes.

“Tell me why you were in my flat Grantaire,” He says in his calm, sickly sweet tone. Everything about Parnasse was beautiful and terrifying, even in a moment like this.

Grantaire didn't answer. Stayed absolutely silent, lulled into a false sense of security by the fact he wasn’t lying on the floor being kicked anymore, that he could feel the two men’s hands on his shoulder.

Then out of nowhere the hands squeeze, and he has barely enough time to panic before the shadow of a man was behind him, grabbing his hand. He feels a blade pressing against the tip of his pinkie finger, just above the knuckle before he screams, feeling the blade push through skin, and muscle, and bone, making him struggle against the grip of the two men holding him, weeping freely now, the pain in his little finger searingly intense.

“Money....fucking money...I need a fucking hit,” Grantaire manages between sobs, only realising the misfortune of his words too late, Babet connecting his fist with Grantaire's face, a loud crack from his nose, more blood pouring and pooling on the floor, Grantaire slack-jawed and shaking.

“I ought to take more than your finger you silly little boy,” Parnasse tuts, Claquesous at his side again, presenting Parnasse with the fingertip on a little white handkerchief, a smirk in the corner of his mouth, Parnasse wrapping it up and putting the handkerchief into his pocket. “Dirty little junkies don't know when to stop, when they've gone too far.”

He feels Gueulemer move and then he kicks him in the ribs hard enough to break what was surely already cracked from the assault on the floor. Babet holds him still, Grantaire croaking as blood bubbles past his lips. He was ashamed of himself, and part of him knew, he deserved this. He deserved a kick so hard his lungs would puncture, and he would die on this floor, pathetic and wheezing.

Parnasse, could clearly see what he was thinking, smiling at him again, shaking his head. “One day you're going to earn my forgiveness Grantaire, why on earth would I want to kill you?” He asks leaning forwards and running his thumb over Grantaire's split bottom lip “One day you're going to be the most useful little junkie in all of Paris, at least to me anyway.”

The dealer stands up and takes a different hankie out of his pocket, a deep purple one, wiping his hand clean, and staring at him with a look of disdain, Claquesous returned to his side, the leash wrapped around Parnasse's delicate wrist.

“Get him out of here and clean up,” He says to the boys, his order soft yet still menacing as he moves out of the way of Grantaire's drooping eyes, and he listens to the click of his heels as he leaves the flat.

As soon as he's let go Grantaire clutches his hand, pressing against his shirt, numbly trying to stop the bleeding, stop the pain. The two men just chuckle at him. Babet walks forwards, grabbing Grantaire by the collar. Too weak to stand on his own two feet Grantaire is dragged out like a corpse. He drags him to the window in the buildings hall, still gripping him by his collar as he opens it up, then drags Grantaire up to rest on the windowsill.

“People like you belong in a pile of shit,” He says with a grin, before rolling Grantaire out of the first floor window, to land in the stinking waste bin, landing on the heaps of refuse bags, wet eyes staring up at Babet, then at the sky, before everything went black.

 

 

**

_Grantaire can't remember ever going to the sea. He can't remember if it's really this green, bright and glittering like an emerald. He's stood on a rock, smooth and warm under his bare feet._

_There's someone else with him._

_Above him a bird crows, but when he looks up the sky is empty, and all he can hear is wind._

_It sounds like it's whispering songs to him._

_He can't seem to turn his head, or even glance back behind him. But the idea doesn't panic him as much as it usually would have._

_Instead he closes his eyes and feels the warmth of the bright sun shining down on his skin._

_He wants to step forward, perhaps dip his toes into the warm water. Or perhaps it's cold, but everything about the whispering wind and the chirping of birds behind him tells him it is._

_He flexes his fingers, opens his eyes and reaches out into the warm bright, sunlight, before he feels a pair of fingers grab his wrist._

_He glances down to see the paler fingers wrapped around his hand. He still doesn't look back, just stares down at the fingers._

_“Don't go there,” the voice behind him says, the voice of an angel, he thinks. The voice is soft, calm even and for some reason Grantaire still doesn't look back._

_When he glances up at the light again it might just be a door, like a welcoming light._

_“You can't go there yet,” the angel insists, letting go of Grantaire's wrist and he can feel the lingering behind him. A taller figure behind him, he's sure._

_Grantaire can't remember what colour the water was in front of him. Pink maybe? It's gone now, just a door, the handle inches away from his fingers, but his hand not moving, fingers still hovering above his wrist._

_He doesn't look down. But he knows that they're there._

_“It's warm,” Grantaire tells the angel, and he can feel it, the pulsating warmth coming from the door, and he wanted to open it, wanted to feel warm for the first time in his life..._

_“It's warm where I am, it's warm behind you, why won't you just turn around?” The angel asks, and there's a twinge of urgency in his voice._

_Grantaire turns._

_He knows the angel is there. He knows he's looking at it's beauty. But he doesn't know what it looks like. And that confuses him._

_He goes to turn around, to look at the door again, feel it's warmth. But it's warm too where the angel is. He feels a hand come up to his cheek, hot as it keeps him from turning, pressing against his skin._

_“Find me.”_

 

 

**

Grantaire had once screamed and shouted that he had no friends, he was just a junkie with nobody in the world. But Bahorel had been there within the hour when he heard, listed as Grantaire's emergency contact. The first night had been hell, Grantaire had lost a lot of blood, his heart was beating too fast, and Bahorel will never forget the moment he was pushed out of the room, nurses shouting, Grantaire going into Cardiac arrest.

He was awake now. Groggy, but awake.

The room is bright, and it smells disgustingly like disinfectant; but all it smells to Grantaire is sick. He can hear a shout in some other room and when he glances over to his side, Bahorel is sat with his elbows on his knees and his fingers laced together.

“You fucking scared the shit out of me,” Bahorel says before he even has time to say a word. And Grantaire supposes that's fair.

He looks a mess, and Grantaire supposes he looks about ten times worse himself. But Bahorel looks tired, and he looked a mix of worried and furious.

“Morning to you too,” Grantaire croaks in response, his voice is weak, and he even surprises himself at the sound of it.

“You've been out of it for five fucking days Grantaire, I thought I was gonna lose you,” He says, unlacing his fingers to put his hand on the bed. Grantaire felt uneasy at the gesture.

“Thought you might want to punch me.”

“Believe me, I'm saving that up for another time.”

Grantaire smiled weakly at that, looking back around the room. Feuilly wasn't here, Grantaire wondered if he was at work, or had chosen to stay at home.

“We've been taking shifts,” Bahorel says then as if he had been reading his thoughts. It had been exhausting, but they had both watching over him, day and night, with best intentions. It almost made Grantaire want to cry. He remembers being a tough little kid who once thought crying was for losers. Now he would like nothing more than to weep.

“This has to stop Grantaire, you can't keep living like this,” Bahorel grunts, sounding angry, his hand on the bed curling into a fist around the sheets. Grantaire wondered what he looked like. There was no mirror, but even without, the word gruesome came to mind.

“I know, I- .. I need help,” He says, and it is the first time in his entire life he's ever admitted such a thing aloud. It was terrifying to admit it, terrifying to admit that he wasn't all right. That he couldn't do this on his own.

“Rehab is a good start,” Bahorel suggests and Grantaire wishes he could dash. But the bed made sure he kept right where he was and listened. The lies on his tongue wanting to escape vanished at the thought of his angel, sitting somewhere out there. Waiting.

“Maybe,” is all he can manage to say, the lies not letting him say anymore and the angel not letting him say anything less than a weak admittance. He was still terrified, and he closes his eyes to gather all the fighting thoughts.

Grantaire looks down to see Bahorel pushing leaflets into his good hand, the one that wasn't bandaged up. The one that wasn't his painting hand, his fencing hand, his tennis hand. He feels a pain in his heart knowing that Bahorel really did care.

It was so easy to push everyone away and pretend like nobody cared. Yet here Bahorel was, nervous and handing him crumpled leaflets he quite obviously had acquired a while ago. Grantaire had to do it for him. He had to do it for his angel. And more importantly; he had to do it for himself.

 

 

**

Unsurprisingly, there wasn't a lot of help at Promise, the rehab clinic where Grantaire had forced himself to go. People weren't exactly clambering through the doors to help heroin addicts, and the addicts themselves, well most of them didn't even care enough to get clean.

Normally Grantaire would have a former addict to help him through his recovery, but his sponsor was a little different. His sponsor, Mr Jean Prouvaire had dabbled in hard drugs, but had been in the facility for an addiction to prescription drugs. At first Grantaire had been skeptic, and angry.

Prouvaire didn't know what he had been through, wouldn't know how to help with his withdrawal and recovery. But just a week in he found himself biting all his words back, and thanking his stars for the underfunding of the facility. Prouvaire, or Jehan as he insisted on being called, was the most kindest soulful person Grantaire had ever met, like a light in his empty life. It was easy for it to become more than a sponsorship, to become a friendship.

Grantaire had moved back in with Bahorel and Feuilly, at their firm insistence, though it was a new, bigger flat now. Part of him wanted to be furious that everyone wanted to keep an eye on him, but then he knew deep inside, that he didn't trust himself to stay on the right path without his friends help.

His room was simple, small and clean, and now he was officially in a recovery program, the government helped with paying for his rent and food. His chain smoking had become a lot more frequent since he was in recovery, and while his drinking wasn't as severe as before, he drank more than a normal person. But one step at a time.

He was sharing a packet of gummy worms with Jehan, sat on his bed with his legs crossed, a cigarette lazily between his fingers as he munched on the sweets.

Grantaire couldn't help but feel at ease in Jehan's company, the conversation was never forced, always fun. He discovered the poet had a fondness for politics and human rights, though he never seemed to be able to coax Grantaire into taking an interest himself.

“Will you tell me how you and your Dominant met?” He asks as he bites the head of his worm, chewing thoughtfully. It was ridiculously obvious to see how submissive Jehan was. The first time he had hung out with Grantaire out of Promise, he had knelt on the floor and been awfully confused when Grantaire insisted he sit on a chair. At first he winced, thought that sweet Jehan might have a beastly Dominant who forced him to submit at all times. But it turned out it was just comfortable to Jehan, and being submissive made him terribly happy.

Jehan pauses, taking a drag of his own menthol cigarette, a warm smile on his lips. “Are you sure you want to talk about it?” He asks, a hint of hesitance in his voice. Jehan knew a lot of people were sore hearing about happy couples gush, especially when they were unbonded themselves.

Grantaire nods, almost a smile on his face, though he's pained. He feels like his first tug is a distant memory away, a teenage boys fantasy that vanished with age. He can still feel the hot twisting in his belly and the ache in his heart, it's more prominent now he's off the drugs.

“Well, it isn't a huge story,” Jehan says, but he's brightening up just at the mention of it and it almost makes Grantaire laugh. Because he can tell it's special to Jehan.

“Tell me,” Grantaire urges on, crossing his legs underneath himself a little, sitting on his foot as he listens.

“Well my friend thought it was a good idea to set me up on a blind date,” He says, both of them laughing at the thought of Jehan needing setting up. He was so beautiful and confident. Jehan couldn't help but notice that Grantaire seemed that too when he smiled like that.

“He was actually the worst wingman you could ever imagine, didn't even tell me about it until thirty seconds before his 'choice' walked into the coffee shop,” He continues with a smile. “I just sat staring at my latte mortified, hoping whoever it was wouldn't notice me. And then he sat down, I looked up and I knew. Years of being a confused lonely kid, and I had found him, and my heart felt like it was going to explode. I was down on my knees before he could even say hello. Courf bless him, he was so happy and confused, and so concerned for my knees, the sweetheart.”

Grantaire smiles. On the outside Jehan was the poster child for submission. He loved submitting, being on his knees, feeling the authority of a Dominant. But he wasn't perfect by no means, though Grantaire hadn't seen that side of him yet.

“You should come meet him,” Jehan says, and Grantaire is snapped out of his thoughts at the idea. He had been thinking, and Jehan had suggested he'd come to the Musain many times but he never saw the appeal of it. He didn't want to listen to some beliefs that he knew would never be rewarded, some ideas that never would see the light of day. But seeing Courfeyrac was another deal.

“Just him?” he asks, hesitant in his tone. Uninterested, but he still thought about it honestly. If it was Courfeyrac not in a meeting, maybe it wouldn't be too bad.

“Yes, there's no meetings tonight, no official ones,” Jehan says, nodding eagerly. He did want Grantaire to meet other people; and of course if he could he'd like to get someone to the cause.

Grantaire thinks about it for a second, but he shakes his head. He promised Bahorel he would watch some TV with him anyway.

“Maybe next week or something?” He offers when he sees the disappointment on his face. He did want to meet Courfeyrac, it did sound like he was a great guy. Next week. Yeah, Grantaire could do that. If he could get himself off heroin for this long, he could meet some stranger in a café.

“My year is coming up soon,” Grantaire says then changing the subject, and Jehan's face lights up.

“I know,” He says with a big grin. “And planning anniversary parties at Promise is like, my favourite thing to do ever. There's going to be so much cake!”

 

 

**

It took him longer than he expected to finally get around to meeting Courfeyrac. His year sober had come and gone, Jehan managed to throw a spectacular party without any substances, Grantaire had actually enjoyed himself too. It was an important milestone, one he never thought about reaching. He still felt a twinge of disgust every time he stared down at his little finger, shorter than the other, a permanent reminder of the life he had once lived.

It is a Wednesday afternoon when Grantaire decides he is brave enough to meet Courfeyrac. He'd sent a message to Jehan before he could even consider anything else in his mind. He takes a quick shower to distract himself, and by the time he comes back out he has a time in a text on his phone.

He's glad for the extra time he gets to get ready even when he read it, it was a good few hours before he was supposed to meet Jehan and Courfeyrac at the café Musain. And it doesn't take him long to find the way once he's walking through Paris and making his way to the little café.

When he gets in the café is just as cosy and calm as Jehan had described it, even at this time, eight in the evening it wasn't filled with people. It was tempting for Grantaire to make his way straight to the bar, but when he spots Jehan knelt on a cushion on the floor waving at him to come and sit with him and a dark haired man, he sees a glass of what looks like lemonade on the table. He smiled inwardly, Jehan was a good sponsor, and a great friend too. He knew a lot of people made lifetime companions with their sponsors, and he wouldn't be unhappy if he and Jehan were friends for life.

“Hello, you must be Grantaire,” The man says as Grantaire approaches the table, standing up and shaking his hand warmly. “I'm Courfeyrac, and Jehan doesn't shut up about you.”

He looks down and sees that ever present blush on Jehan's cheek, grinning and sitting down on one of the chairs. “How are you Jehan,” He asks grinning down at him.

Jehan looks up at Courfeyrac who beams and nods, placing his hand on top of Jehan's head. “I’m wonderful, I spent the day writing poems, it's not very often I get a day as productive as this,” He tells him.

“That’s because he's lousy with remembering to take his medication,” Courfeyrac adds, and Grantaire feels astounded at how well they fit together.

Overall Grantaire is astounded with Courfeyrac, they end up in a bit of a discussion, about a lot of things. And Courfeyrac does loosen up on the serious talk a while in, starting to talk stories and funny moments with Grantaire and it feels like a good evening. All in all Grantaire feels like it's a good day, a positive day.

 

**

The door opens with push, and it is pushed closed behind the submissive that strides in just as quickly. For some reason, Grantaire does look up, his gaze travelling to the person walking in through the door.

A man with golden curls, like a halo of hair around his head. His expression marble and the way he strode into the room made Grantaire's heart beat quicken. The man, the boy, the submissive is dressed in light washed jeans, ripped at the knees, ripped marks up his thighs. The black t-shirt with the red jacket over it, littered with buttons and stamps for submissive rights.

Grantaire can barely hear Jehan greeting the golden God in front of him, as their gazes meet and he is sure he can feel his tug rip at his chest.

Like a burst of light between the two, they seem paused in time, their gazes locked and their bond entwined.


	4. Let Me Paint You in Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a long time in the work due to ... things. Either way here it is, chapter 4. I'd like to warn for dubious-consent and a BDSM scene without safe words, as well as warnings for bondage and spanking with a belt.

 

Grantaire knew who the man before him was. Even if he were not to recognise the burning in his heart, setting him on fire, he would know. Years ago Bahorel had lit a flame in him, and now it was burning bright with the heat of the sun, consuming him completely. He rises to his feet best he can without stumbling, and he hardly notices how Jehan is staring in confusion, how Courfeyrac is grinning with a knowing smugness as they both watch Enjolras and Grantaire stand opposite from each other, meeting at last.

 

Grantaire remembers the story Jehan had told a month before, about how he had desired to be on his knees for Courfeyrac, how it had brought them both great happiness in their first meeting. So Grantaire stood, unspeaking, slightly shorter than Enjolras, but shoulders pushed back, a confident air about him. He was a Dominant, he was this man’s Dominant, and he would be the man he was supposed to be.

 

“My name is Grantaire,” He tells him, though he holds out no hand to shake, usual formal custom is for a submissive to bow to a stranger who is Dominant. 

 

“Enjolras,” comes the response without a hesitation. But the boy makes no movement to kneel, or no movement to bow. 

 

Enjolras feels a breathless confusion in his heart. His head is racing with thoughts and his heart is soaring just at the sight of this person in front of him. What did he believe in? What could they do together, or would he be something else.

 

He may not be visibly kneeling but his heart is all but leaping for approval he wouldn't allow himself here. Too crowded, and Grantaire was too unknown. 

 

“Enjolras,” Jehan hisses from the table, wanting to poke his friend, annoyed that he was sat so far away. “You're supposed to bow. Do something.”

 

Jehan wondered if Enjolras had for once let nerves get the better of him. He really couldn't think of any other reason why he would be rude to his Dom. It made him happy, knowing that the universe had been so kind to pair two of his friends. Even if Enjolras was nervous or scared – because surely what else could it be – Jehan had faith that they would be happy together. Of course he was a firm believer in the tug and what it brought, he saw there being little point in forming relationships when you could have your soulmate. Because they're meant for you, of course you're supposed to be perfect together. He may be doubtful and negative about a lot of things, but the tug wasn't one of those things. 

 

Grantaire stood there, feeling awkward. He watched Courfeyrac eye him with interest, and watched Enjolras and Jehan glare at each other, and for a moment it felt like he wasn't even involved in the scene, just an outsider watching. He wanted to pull Enjolras close, to kiss him, to hold him and own him. But Enjolras was showing no signs that he wanted anything from him.

 

And it is awkward for a few moments, a few moments of Enjolras frowning at Jehan for hissing at him. But he turns back to Grantaire and clears his throat.

 

“I am not bowing, I don't know you yet,” he says, and he can hear Jehan letting out a frustrated noise behind him, surely not understanding this process. 

 

“Right, Of course not,” Grantaire makes a snort of amusement, though he feels less than amused, perhaps even a bit heart broken. It made him feel annoyed and confused, Enjolras should want to bow for him. It wasn't as if Grantaire were a real stranger, approaching and asking for his submission. He had been in his heart since sixteen. He was _his_ soulmate, _his_ Dominant, and surely that earned him at least a tiny bit of respect. But then an ugly thought hit him, and ugly could only be the word to describe what cropped up into Grantaire's head. Enjolras was beautiful, looked as if he had been formed by the Gods himself. He was clearly strong, he knew he must be intelligent and wise. And if he were friends with Prouvaire he must be passionate. All that made him think of himself. An ugly recovering addict. Nothing more. That's all he was.

 

“Do you have someone else?” He asks then, trying to break the awkwardness of the moment, wishing Jehan and Courfeyrac wouldn't stare so.

 

“What?” Enjolras asks, and never has he sounded so confused before in his life. Because anyone in this room knew their leader had never had a relationship like that. “No,” he says, a deep furrow in-between his brows which only causes Grantaire to look even more puzzled. 

 

“Is it so impossible that I want to know you before bowing for you?” 

 

The question throws most of the room off guard, Musichetta who is pretending to rub down the bar with a towel is glancing at the boys in the middle of the room as well. Because this is something they all had been curious to see, how would Enjolras react to his Dominant coming into his life. 

 

And to the unknown person Enjolras might look stoic and calm, but he was nervous and he was full of hope for Grantaire. Full of hope for their future- but his submission was his precious thing. Combeferre had cared for him, even Courfeyrac at times and he wouldn't hand it over without knowing it was safe, that he could rightfully feel safe. So he stands put, eyeing Grantaire, waiting for his response.

 

“Is it?” he repeats, trying to sound demanding but for once he just sounds a bit desperate.

 

“Perhaps we should go somewhere else to talk,” he suggests, looking extremely awkward as he looks around. It was an effort enough for him to agree to go to a crowded bar and meet Jehan's friends, but now he was talking to his submissive, and for some reason everyone in the bar was staring at them, even if they were pretending not to.

 

Grantaire didn't see what Enjolras saw, they were both looking at it so differently. Grantaire saw a submissive being hostile, refusing to even bow as a greeting, despite the fact he was sure he had been nothing but kind. And Enjolras saw a stranger expecting him to bend for them, despite him knowing nothing about him.

 

“My apartment?” Enjolras asks, he could see Grantaire seemed uncomfortable, and he didn't want to scare him off. Because no matter how frustrating he found these feelings, he didn't want to take one step away from him. 

  
Their tug was making them both want to be close, and Grantaire wanted to be as far away from this bar as possible, because everyone was staring and he knew he was ugly but this was really too much. Forcing himself to take a deep breath he holds out a hand for Enjolras to take. There were no dynamics to it, it would not be a sign of submission, but Grantaire needed it, he had to have some kind of intimacy between them. 

  
There’s an almost audible sigh of relief when Enjolras holds his hand. He doesn't entwine their fingers, simply clasping his palm, and Grantaire grips back tighter, hoping he wasn't just being polite, hoping that Enjolras needed it as badly as he did. 

 

“Thank you for inviting me tonight Prouvaire, and it was great to meet you Courfeyrac,” He says turning to nod at them, though he has to force a smile, everything seemed so strained as he tried to think clearly. The two boys sat at the table both eagerly waved them off, and Grantaire grimaced because he knew Jehan, he was probably already planning a Bond Ceremony in his head. 

 

Enjolras grips Grantaire's hand and tugs him out of the Musain after a moment, and he will have texts to answer but right now his only focus was Grantaire. 

 

“I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I am sorry they stare, they are just wondering how I'll react to a Dominant,” he says, trying to explain and it only causes Grantaire to look puzzled and uneasy again. 

 

How Enjolras would react, didn't he want a Dominant? Was Grantaire meeting someone who had not even wanted him near? It would be just his luck if he had to be honest, it would be exactly the kind of thing that happens to him. He had never intended to meet his submissive, had never thought himself good enough, too much time had passed, too many bad things had happened. But he was filled with slight confidence from being close to him, his heart soaring and pounding every time Enjolras's hand shifted against his own.

 

Their pace was brisk as they manoeuvred their way through the streets of Paris, and Grantaire would admit, it felt strange to be tugged along by Enjolras and his soft hands, and he tried to not look as if he were clinging to him so desperately. He wouldn't allow himself to show weakness around Enjolras, it wouldn't do for anything. And he didn't want him to run away. He wanted him to be happy to be with him, wanted them to form a bond like what Courfeyrac and Jehan had, to be stronger together than they were apart. 

 

They walk silently, neither of them trying to rouse up a conversation, mostly because both of them felt nervous and terrified. The amount of people around them made Grantaire uncomfortable and Enjolras was simply following his lead, even though he was the one that tugged Grantaire along the streets. 

 

And it's not hard for Grantaire to notice that Enjolras is leading them into quite a nicer neighbourhood, it was nothing like his own with buildings and much cleaner streets. And it doesn't take them long to get into an apartment building and for Enjolras to dig his keys out, unlocking the door to his apartment with some nervous issue.

 

“It's messy,” he warns, letting Grantaire in before him as he tugs the door shut behind them. 

  
It might be messy, papers over the tables in a mess, but it was full of books and full of space. Space that Grantaire never in his wildest moments would find in his own apartment- or the one he'd had before he stayed with Feuilly and Bahorel that is. Grantaire's was open plan, but it was nothing like this, Enjolras's apartment was wild. Bookshelves seemed to pop up from everywhere, bits of paper sticking out between novels and encyclopedias, leaving trailers all over the apartment. The old suede couch sagged near the window, filed piled on an arm, threatening to topple. The little dining room table was a house for newspapers that almost made Grantaire think he might be a hoarder, the stacks piled as high as him. The small kitchen looked barely used, plates and pans pushed into every space leaving nothing free, though they looked clean and untouched, no dishes in the sink, save from an empty glass standing on top of the counter. The kitchen and bedroom were parted by half a wall, revealing more bookshelves and piles of literature that Grantaire was sure must have taken years to collect. A big desk stood overlooking one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and shoved up against the half-wall, a neat double bed, with a stool for an end-table, and a giant map of Paris looming over it.

 

“It's massive,” he says in awe as he looks around, keeping hold of his hand but walking a little bit further into the apartment, looking around, feeling privileged to be allowed to peek into Enjolras's life. He was glad Enjolras had suggested they go to his place, he was not sure he would live out the shame of taking Enjolras to his tiny bedsit, it wasn't exactly a place to inspire love, only despair. 

 

“It's just a place to sleep at night,” Enjolras says with a shrug, he didn't see there being anything special about where he lived. He knew people had worse, but people had much better too. He walks over the window, letting go of their hands to clasp his own behind his back, eyeing the sight of Paris from his window. Grantaire was by his side in seconds, he could feel the warmth of the other as he looked over his city.

 

“You wanted to talk,” he says, his gaze still looking out the window.

  
There was people hurrying along the street and cars driving by, and nothing about it was essentially romantic or enchanting, but Grantaire standing behind him felt like a secret blessing from above. He turns around to face Grantaire, and the both of them almost flush bright red at how close they are suddenly.

 

Grantaire had a thousand things to say, words all rushing to him as he stares out of the window, but as he turns to face Enjolras too, everything vanishes, brain turned to mush and replaced by nothing but heat. He could feel his cheeks burning, and no doubt he looked as flushed as he felt. But Enjolras was blushing too, and he was sure he had nothing to be embarrassed about, so that flush must be due to something else. Grantaire was silent as he wonders how far it travels, if when he blushed it was his whole body lightly tinged with red; warming and inviting.

 

He doesn't think about asking, he just steps forwards to Enjolras's surprise and closes the distance between them. Grantaire's hand comes up to tangle in his hair first, and Enjolras's lips are wet and parted before Grantaire moves his head and kisses him, so sweet yet so powerful, and both of them can feel the passion and fireworks from finally touching, finally after all this time getting to kiss each other. Grantaire's lips were cracked and dry, bitten and nothing like Enjolras's, but the blonde found himself enjoying them anyway. He knew that sparks could not literally fly between them, but he could _feel_ them, the heat as he angled himself to press his lithe form against Grantaire's chest, seeking any intimacy he was allowed.

 

Grantaire is the first one to break the kiss, breathing in sharp and quick, but as soon as his lungs are filled with oxygen Enjolras is pressing their lips together again, hungry for his soulmate, not wanting their first kiss to end. Grantaire manages to fumble enough to find Enjolras's waist, almost proud of himself for roughly remembering where the bed was in the apartment, both of the stumbling backwards as they kiss, walking until Grantaire's legs are pressed against the foot of the bed.

 

He drops himself onto the bed, Enjolras stooping to meet the kiss, Grantaire's fingers twisted in Enjolras's hair. The submissive wraps his arms around his neck, using the position as leverage as he lowers himself to sit in Grantaire's lap. Both of them are smiling into the hungry kisses, Grantaire biting on Enjolras's lower lip when he opens his mouth, finding that sinking his teeth into the swollen flesh creates a wonderfully soft noise in Enjolras's throat. 

 

Grantaire breaks the kiss once more, grunting slightly, feeling like an animal in heat, Enjolras was more flushed than before, and the redness on his pale skin made him look like ripe fruit, ready to be devoured. 

 

“I want to mark you,” He mumbles, pressing his mouth against his neck, inhaling the sweet scent of his skin, sweat mixed with soap to create a scent that he would always recognise as Enjolras. 

 

“Can I?”

 

Enjolras has to fight not to moan just at the suggestion of being claimed in such a way, tilting his head to the side to expose his neck to his Dominant. 

 

“Yes, don't ask me,” He breathes, and almost instantly he feels Grantaire's teeth nipping at his skin, lips closing around his neck making him laugh breathlessly. The sucking from Grantaire's mouth is soft at first, sweet and heady like perfume in summer, but it's quick to harden, enough to leave bruises against the pale flesh, needy and claiming, there to remind Enjolras that he was giving himself, that his body was no longer his own.

 

And Grantaire so desperately wanted him to know. He wanted these bruises to last, for Enjolras to be reminded what his lips felt like on his skin, how it felt to be marked. And he wanted to be here for it, wanted to wake up in the morning with the lean submissive wrapped in his arms, writhing against him in dream state, calmed only by kisses to his bruised neck and soft words whispered in his ear. 

 

He could feel his own arousal, his brain hadn't even registered Enjolras's, his jeans tight and pressing against Enjolras's warm body, and he found himself surprised at how full his ass felt when he reached down to cup his cheeks, and grind Enjolras's body down on his crotch. 

 

Enjolras grinds against him, a bit of needy approval in his motions. The room felt hotter than usual, his fingers fisting in Grantaire's shirt to keep him close. And Grantaire has never felt as wanted as he did in this moment; high on emotions in his head and with his own submissive wanting to keep him close.

 

Grantaire's crooked nose is pressed against his neck, where the bruises are blossoming one after another from the attention from his teeth. Hands are gripping onto Enjolras waist, stilling him from the grinding, and making him produce a rather frustrated sound. But Grantaire ignores it, doesn't touch Enjolras where he needs to be touched.

 

He pushes him off, hands pushing at his waist, and then on his shoulders, making Enjolras slide off his lap and away from the bed, bringing him to his knees in front of him. A small part of his brain registers Enjolras's refusal to be submissive, to not want to kneel, but surely it was different now, and Enjolras looked so beautiful, the word 'pretty' sprung to Grantaire's mind as he looked down on his lovely submissive, brought to his knees for him. He learns forwards, pressing two fingers against Enjolras's bottom lip, rubbing it as his other hand fumbled with his jeans. His arousal was straining against the fabric, and clouding his mind, how could he think of anything else when Enjolras looked so beautiful like that, when everything felt so passionate and wonderful between them.

 

Enjolras sits on his knees, his feet pressed into the ground and there is something about the position that is vaguely uncomfortable, but there isn't much he can register in his mind, in the state he's in. He can feel himself slipping into a sense of submissiveness, pressing his chin against Grantaire's knee and pressing his feet harder into the ground. He opens his lips and lets Grantaire slip his fingers into his mouth, and despite that nagging uncomfortable feeling, he finds himself enjoying the way Grantaire's fat fingers slipping against his tongue, pushed in until he can feel his knuckles grazing his top lip, and Enjolras knows he's supposed to mimic fellatio, so he does, eagerly and wetly sucking on those fingers. 

He closes his eyes as his tongue darts between the two digits, and when he opens them again Grantaire has pulled himself out of his trousers, exposed to the virginal looking sub. Grantaire has no idea if his mate has been touched before, but he likes to think not, likes to imagine that wide eyed look is because Enjolras hadn't seen a cock in real life until he tugged it out of his pants. Grantaire is as hairy as he is everywhere else, a thick patch of black hair resting above his erection, curly black hairs trailing down to cover his balls and his perineum. His shaft was average length, though to Enjolras, it looked as thick as his arm and for a second he felt uncomfortable once more, thinking about Grantaire entering him with such girth. Grantaire however, had no thoughts about Enjolras not being to take him. He presses his hand on the back of his head, pushing him forwards as he pulls the fingers out of his mouth, and bringing the already leaking head of his erection to Enjolras's lips.

  
He presses his tongue out against the head of Grantaire's erection, a visible soft frown in concentration as he laps at the wet skin. It tasted odd, and Grantaire's hand was at the back of his head, guiding him and encouraging every little move he made. It isn't as if he is unknown to sex in it's completion, he has researched to some extent, and he has explored himself if anything.

But now he was on his knees, which he can remember he didn't want to, but he supposes there was that issue of trust. He was supposed to trust Grantaire, and he did not seem cruel in the least. So Enjolras could bring himself to feel like he forgives him for forcing him to kneel as he focuses on that big palm pressed into his skin, pushing him forwards. Enjolras's mouth parts automatically as he's pushed forwards more by Grantaire's impatient fingers. His thin lips stretch around Grantaire's swollen head, the bitter taste of his pre-cum running down his throat. Grantaire lets out a grunt as he feels Enjolras's curious tongue dart over his slit. He looks down proudly at Enjolras, his expression heavy with lust and desire, and rolls his hips once, pushing his shaft deeper into Enjolras's mouth, taking pleasure in the choking sound he makes, feeling the vibrations of his throat against his erection.

 

It was like a noise in his head, the pride from Grantaire, he could feel it when they were like this. It hummed in his head like an emotion, running through the tug in their hearts and it had to be one of the few interesting things he'd felt in quite a while. The hum of their bond as he gags, somehow it is all right, it doesn't feel as awkward as it might've felt if his head wasn't fuzzy with emotion and the tug, keeping him at a calm level. It ran through every beat of his racing heart, and the hand at the back of his head still made him feel a sense of safety. This was pleasurable for him, Grantaire had managed to twist his fingers into his hair to hold him there and Enjolras could feel his surely dirty nails scraping against his scalp, happy for once that Jehan had reminded him to wash his hair, so his locks felt soft and smooth, clean as Grantaire dragged his fingers through them. Enjolras gagged louder, struggling a little to accommodate his length, not exactly well practised in sucking cock.

 

“Breathe, and relax your throat,” Grantaire orders, the firm tone in his mouth makes Enjolras look up, and it's only when he raises his gaze does he realise his eyes are wet, and Grantaire is _smiling_. It fills him with such pleasure, inhaling deeply through his nose, pushing his tongue up against Grantaire's shaft in a way that makes the Dominant moan and Enjolras whimper in turn, aching to touch himself, to be touched. He lets out little noises, high-pitched and keening as Grantaire starts to move again, one hand resting on the mattress and the other back tugging his hair, holding him still as he fucks Enjolras's mouth so beautifully hard the sub is crying and seeing stars, focused on nothing but the knowledge that Grantaire is grunting and groaning with enjoyment, all because Enjolras was a _good sub._

 

All too soon Grantaire is pulling away, his cock wet and slick as he slides it out of Enjolras's mouth, Enjolras's jaw aching, and definitely surprising himself as he lets out a noise of disapproval, brows knitted together once more as he watched Grantaire lazily stroke himself off just a few times, using Enjolras's spit as lubrication.  


“You look so fucking pretty,” Grantaire grunts, and he can't think of any other word, Enjolras beneath him with shiny red lips, and he looked utterly feminine, something Grantaire never thought of. But most importantly, he almost looked like his dreams of the perfect sub. Like the subs from the videos in class. Thick eyelashes, flushed cheeks, aroused because of _him._ “I want to tie you up and fuck you, I want to make you mine.”

 

Enjolras's eyes fly open then, his panting breathing becomes slightly more rapid, and words fly through his head but don't leave his mouth. He's no stranger to the existence of kinks, and he doesn't need to have experimented with all of them to know what he doesn't like. And it isn't until Grantaire has yanked him onto the bed and put him on his belly, it's not until he can feel leather biting into his wrists and binding his arms together, that he begins to feel terrified. He however, brings himself to push it away. He was a submissive, shouldn't he follow his instinct and give Grantaire what he wanted? And he loved the idea of finally being with him, because he might be an angry revolutionary, but he needed love too, he just felt he was clever enough to never show it, to play the part of the man whos heart belonged to France, because at least France would never leave him, would always love him the way he loved his Fatherland. 

 

“Grantaire-” He whines, high-pitched and feminine sounding, almost telling him how uncomfortable being restrained he is, but then he feels Grantaire kicking tugging at his jeans roughly, and it's then he realises his red-leather belt is missing, must be the one tied to tightly around his wrists. He feels exposed, embarrassed almost when Grantaire manages to get the bottom half of him naked, but he doesn’t look back, pressing his face against the pillow. He feels Grantaire kick his legs apart, spreading them, and the warmth of Grantaire's thighs, still in jeans, pressed up against his own naked thighs is a strange, comfort, a reminder of who is there behind him, and it helps him relax just a little bit, grabbing onto that feeling of their bodies pressed together, instead of the rubbing against his wrists. 

 

“God I want to make that ass as pink as your perfect mouth,” Grantaire grunts, grabbing roughly at his cheeks in a way Enjolras found he quite liked, and would enjoy more if his head wasn't full of worry. He whines and half-moans at the touch, leaning up into it, but in confusion. He wanted Grantaire's arms around him, wanted him to touch him and kiss him. He wanted to look at that startlingly interesting face. He didn't want to be pressed down in a bed, feeling utterly powerless.

  
“I want you to count,” Grantaire grunts, and Enjolras pants, squirms, his head filled with the sound of Grantaire removing his belt, thick leather surely stretching out over Grantaire's knuckles, and then a smack against the Dominants palm as he tests the weight of it.

 

The first blow comes as a surprise and shakes him to the core. He feels the sting of the leather, biting at his skin, spreading sensations all over his body, and as his muscles jerk he's reminded of the powerless position. “One,” He mumbles, his breath coming out ragged and pained, and when Grantaire spanks him again he tries to force himself to realise that Grantaire finds this arousing, that this is a good thing.

  
Another crack comes, harder this time over both his cheeks, leaving an angry red mark that Enjolras could feel burning.

  
“Two.”  


Another blow.

  
“T-three.”

The fourth blow comes and Enjolras barely feels it, and he can't utter a word, a soft breath escaping his lips instead. He furrows his brows, blond brows knitting together as he tugs at the restraints weakly. It is barely noticed either, he can feel Grantaire's smack him with the belt, and if anything Enjolras felt nauseous and in the need of a blanket. The room felt almost freezing all of a sudden, and still too hot. The fact that he couldn't find his voice was more stressful than anything, but he focuses on his muddled thoughts, on how he can't utter a word, and how oddly enough he doesn't feel the strikes as hard as before.

  
After the tenth blow he does notice it seize, and he can feel Grantaire's panicking but his gaze is on the pillows, his body shivering. 

 

“Enjolras, talk to me.”

 

The submissive barely registers the fact Grantaire is talking to him. It's just a buzzing in his head, it's faint and far away, just like the pain from the blows. He isn't struggling anymore against the restraints, not noticing he's sweating as he presses his nose against the pillow, vision blurred, everything about him numb.

 

“Enjolras can you answer me, fuck,” Grantaire begs, he's certainly not in Dominant mode as he stares down at his sub, his soulmate, welts covering his ass cheeks, his lithe body shivering on the unfamiliar bed. And Grantaire has no idea what the hell he's done. He's never had a sub before, Enjolras was supposed to like it, he never said stop, by now he should be moaning and begging for Grantaire. And that’s when it hits him. He never said stop. But there was a time in Grantaire's life where he had never said stop either, even though he wanted to stop everything. And his eyes widen in horror when he realises what he's done.

 

He almost trips over his own feet, fumbles to find the mobile phone in his pockets, glancing over to Enjolras every few seconds as he tries to find his phone, his fingers shaking as if he's craving a drink, but it's the least of what is on his mind in just this moment. He dials the number, fingers still shaking as he presses the cellphone to his ear, running his fingers through his sweaty curls.

 

“Fuck, pick up, Jehan,” he mutters under his breath, a faint plea escaping his lips as he glances over to the shivering submissive on the bed. Enjolras looks out of it, if anything, but Grantaire has no fucking idea what he's supposed to do. 

 

“Hello?” The voice comes on the other end and Grantaire allows himself half a second to breathe a sigh of relief, because he isn't sure he can do this alone.

  
“Jehan fuck,” He breathes, heavy and scared. “I..I don't know what happened...we were scening, he wont fucking talk to me, I've never- Help me, please.”  
  
“Jesus Christ Grantaire, I need you to calm down,” Jehan says on the other end, and Grantaire can hear Courfeyrac muttering in the background.

 

“I can't calm down Prouvaire,” He growls, irritated, utterly terrified, feeling like a monster. “I need you to come over to Enjolras's place, I need- I need help.”

 

He can hear Jehan and Courfeyrac in hushed tones on the other end of the line and it makes him wince. “We'll be there in five minutes alright,” Jehan finally says. “Keep calm for me, please.”  
  
Grantaire hangs up and shoves his phone back in his pocket, but calm is the last thing he feels is calmed, even after the conversation. He feels ill looking at Enjolras, his beautiful Enjolras. The sub has curled up in on himself, knees tucked to his pale chest, head down, in his own little world. Grantaire didn't understand what to do, he knew he had done wrong. But how to fix it was another thing entirely, and how to know what he was supposed to do. He had heard on the tone of Jehan's voice that the poet seemed calmer, seemed to have some sort of idea. But all Grantaire knew himself was that Enjolras looked cold and alone, what he needed? Well, that he wasn't sure of, what did a submissive need after they got hurt. All he'd done himself when he'd gotten into this situation was vomit and bury his face into the dirty pillows in his apartment. 

 

The door pushes open and he stops in his pacing, looking over and he is met with the sight of Courfeyrac and Jehan coming into the room. He opens his mouth but he doesn't know what to say, running his sweaty palms through his hair as he hesitantly steps away, steps back from the bed.  
  
“He just fucking-”  
  
“Shut up Grantaire and go stand over there,” Jehan is saying to him, and Grantaire feels hurt, but he lets Jehan push him out of the way. He watches Jehan get into the bed, watches him curl around Enjolras's body, whisper something in his ear, stroke his hair, and he watches Enjolras slowly start to come loose in Jehan's arms. Jehan looks up to Courfeyrac and the man nods, moving over to the kitchen, filling the kettle up with water.

  
“What have I done?” Grantaire asks numbly.

 

“He's gone into subspace and he needs aftercare,” Courfeyrac says quietly, and despite the friendliness of the man in the bar, Grantaire feels like they aren't really chums in this moment. Not in the slightest.

  
“Well is there anything I can do?” He offers, watching Courfeyrac take out a mug and drop a teabag in it. It's only then that he notices Courfeyrac has a bag with him. An aftercare bag? Of course Courfeyrac would have something clever like that, he was a proper Dominant, he wasn't a waste of space like Grantaire was.

 

“Look mate maybe it's best if you leave,” Courfeyrac says with an apologetic sigh. “Let us take care of him, and call him in the morning or something.”  
  
Grantaire could only nod, could only turn and look to the bed with a lump in his throat. Enjolras had his arms around Jehan's waist, his face buried against his ugly jumper. For a second Grantaire thinks Enjolras should be clinging to him, but he was no good was he. Enjolras was much better without his awful behaviour.  
  
“I'm sorry,” Grantaire mumbles, before turning on his heel, and departing the apartment, as fast as he possibly could.

 

 

**

 

“Would you like some tea Enjolras?” Jehan offers in a soft tone, gently untangling their limbs, bringing the blond to sit, and not minding at all when Enjolras leans on him, when he grips his hand hard. Jehan needed aftercare after most intense scenes, he understood completely.

 

“No, I need something to eat,” the reply is slow, after a moment of thought of what he might need. Because the world was dizzy at best right now, and Jehan could see Enjolras was thinking, perhaps trying to piece together earlier events or just piece together how he felt.

He reaches over and hands Enjolras the red hoodie from the floor, letting the other submissive dress as he glances back to Courfeyrac who hasn't been able to take a seat, somewhat worriedly stood on his feet in the room. Jehan is appreciative of him, Courfeyrac was gently letting Jehan have control of the situation, trusting that he knew what to do. But Jehan also knew Courfeyrac was terribly good at aftercare when Jehan needed it, he always felt safe and looked after.  
  
“How about I make you some toast, and Courfeyrac will come lie with you, if thats okay with you?” Jehan asks, his tone is quite firm, firmer than usual, and Courfeyrac notices that Jehan is trying his hardest to slip into a Dominant mode to help Enjolras out.

  
“Courfeyrac...alright,” Enjolras says slowly, and frowns at the loss of heat from Jehan's small frame as he watches him rise and pad over to the kitchen. But only a few seconds pass and he's being pulled to Courfeyrac's chest, thicker arms wrapping around him, a kiss to his forehead. For a second Enjolras wonders if Jehan is the jealous type. He's annoyed at himself for needing this, for feeling co-dependant, as if he is unable to survive a scene without a Dominant afterwards.

 

Courfeyrac seems to pick up on this. “Aftercare is a fact of life Enjolras, it is nothing to be ashamed about,” He tells him firmly, fingers stroking over the fabric of his soft hoodie, calming, soothing motions.

 

Enjolras has his head pressed against Courfeyrac's chest by now, the change in bodybuild made him think of Grantaire, not that Courfeyrac was even remotely close to Grantaire's build, far from it. He thinks about the statement from the Dominant that is holding him, but he isn't ashamed by the aftercare on it's own. But the fact that, Grantaire wasn't here took it's toll on his mind, because he'd taken time to realise that Grantaire had left.

 

“I'm not ashamed,” he manages to say, cheek pressed to Courfeyrac's chest, hearing the calm heart beats of his friend, it was calming and comforting. He could hear Jehan rummaging about in the small kitchen space, and everything was slower somehow in this moment. Everything seemed to take it's own time, and Enjolras body wasn't as fast as his mind. “Is he coming back?”

 

Enjolras can feel Courfeyrac tense up against him, and as if the poet were listening in on them, Jehan appears with a big plate of toast in his hand, and Courfeyrac is relaxed again, and clearly moving on so he doesn't have to answer. Enjolras isn't stupid. He realises the subject has been avoided. Courfeyrac takes the plate and the sound of Enjolras's stomach growling echoes in the lofty apartment, surprisingly making all three of them chuckle. Enjolras sits up but still clings himself to Courfeyrac, paying no mind when the Dominant starts to hand feed him. He knew Jehan was hand fed most of his meals, and Courfeyrac was probably just used to this. And besides, it felt nice; relaxing even. He watches Jehan take out his laptop from the bag and set it down on the chest at the end of the bed, angling it so the screen was visible, and pressing play. 

  
“Are we watching something?” Enjolras asks, swallowing a mouthful of toast, looking over to Jehan. 

 

“The Lost Boys. It's super cheesy vampires, you might like it if you give it a chance,” Jehan says, climbing onto the bed and snuggling up to Enjolras's free side, stealing a piece of toast and grinning at the frowning Courfeyrac. Enjolras wondered if Jehan would be punished for that later. He wondered if Jehan ever felt a belt across is behind like Enjolras did, still feeling the sting now. They both seemed far too adorable and in love to do things like that.  


Courfeyrac and Jehan was on either side of him, and there was something relaxing about it but no matter how he wanted to, what was on his mind was Grantaire. Watching Courfeyrac and Jehan's small interactions like snatching toast and little teasing pinches, it all made him wonder what he could be like with Grantaire. What was Grantaire like, he hardly even knew the Dominant and they were already parted. And even with his shaken up mind, he wanted to talk to Grantaire, wanted to spend time with him and learn to know this person that was supposed to be in his life. Yet, here he was, with his friends instead of his own Dominant. Not that he couldn't deal with being on his own, or not deal with being parted from a Dominant. But there was something lonely about it, something digging and poking at the back of his head. 

 

He eyes the TV with a furrow in his brow, but he leans more against the friends around him. It was comforting, and it was calming to have them here to distract him from his buzzing mind. Even now it was running on high alert, but he felt out of sorts, and out of place somehow. Did Grantaire not want to be here? Had he been disappointing somehow, he's sure he wasn't, it was nothing he had the ability to control. Perhaps he'd have to take it up next time he saw Grantaire- But when would that be?

 

For now the only certainty was his two friends, on either side of him, cuddling him close. Jehan stroked his hair and Courfeyrac fed him bite sized pieces of toast, and he could almost be happy. Because he knew his friends were here for him, had come to his aid no matter what, whether is be business for their cause, or for personal reasons. And despite the loneliness creeping inside him, he could relax just a little, and let his friends take care of him, the best way they could. 

 


End file.
